Hunger Games: Remus Thread
by IzorIzent
Summary: Romulus Thread, Head Peacekeeper in District 12, has a twin brother named Remus whose career follows a bizarrely different arc. Milo Johnson, Capitol agent, has orders to implement a strategy tied to the third Quarter Quell. These two may change Panem forever. A rewrite of my earlier story "Hunger Games: The Tale of Titan" rearranged and enlarged with an added back story for Milo.


**1**

Julius Corel was at breakfast when he heard the news of the captures. He looked at the plate of fresh eggs and crisp bacon before him, the carefully buttered toast, looked at the steam rising from his cup of coffee, the moisture beading on the cold glass of his orange juice, and he had a bad feeling, a feeling that looking at breakfast was as close as he was going to get to it this day.

Two unknown women had been seized outside the fence. These two weren't the first, and wouldn't be the last. Base 43 sat about halfway between District 12 and the officially non-existent District 13. "Officially non-existent" obviously wasn't enough. The word got out, and 13 was the logical destination for every runaway and malcontent in all of Panem. Corel could only suppose that some of them reached it; more probably died in the wilderness; some few were unfortunate enough to reach his base instead.

It felt like the base was in the middle of nowhere. Charged with monitoring the activities of both its neighboring districts, it was manned with a small squadron of aging hovercraft and an equally small and lackluster garrison. The posting was dull, the work routine and uninteresting. Life at the base was a series of endless freezing winters, punctuated by blazing hot periods of swarming mosquitoes and flies. And all this was his to command. Without the occasional provocation from District 13, they'd all be dead of boredom.

He picked up a fork and poked at his bacon and eggs in a desultory fashion.

"Who are they?"

The Peacekeeper, standing rigidly at attention before him, replied, "We don't know. Two women wearing Peacekeeper Whites. DNA samples sent for processing."

"Come back when you do know." sighed the Commander. "Notify Johnson. Dismissed."

The soldier backed from the room leaving the Commander to his thoughts. It wasn't like 13 to send spies in Whites. Not that there weren't probably spies in the garrison, but 13 was usually more subtle than this. Runaways showed up now and then, but not wearing Whites. The Nomes, those wild men of the wilderness, had simply learned to steer clear. However, these were strange times and anything was possible.

Pressure had been building ever since Katniss Everdeen had faced down the Capitol and survived the last Hunger Games, a breath of unease and insurrection was in the air. She and her Mockingjay symbol were now another of Corel's responsibilities. Constant hovercraft reconnaissance of 12, with dedicated sight-shielded drones tracking Everdeen's every move: these were new headaches. He didn't even get the product. It was all encrypted; encrypted for Johnson.

Johnson. Some damned Capitol spook hand delivered by Snow (President Snow of all people!) that freaking February day in the middle of this freaking endless winter.

Snow's Presidential hovercraft had landed, unannounced, at the base. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. And by the way, here's Milo Johnson. He'll be overseeing the Everdeen situation and making recommendations regarding this facility. I trust you will afford him every co-operation."

Johnson had been a fixture ever since. Corel ran the base, but it was understood that nothing would take place without Johnson being informed, and a suggestion from Johnson was an order to be obeyed. He was as average a man as could be: medium height, medium weight, medium brown eyes, medium brown hair, medium everything, as bland and uninteresting as face as could hope to be found, no obvious physical stature, no obvious presence, dressed in a subdued fashion for a Capitol citizen. In any random gathering of people, this man would draw no attention whatsoever. Yet here he was, a civilian with total access and authority. It was galling.

Having to cope with Johnson was a pain, but his arrival had not been entirely without benefits. The Capitol had quite suddenly taken a new interest in the base. The hovercraft were finally getting the maintenance and updates they had long required, and the squadron was being augmented with new aircraft. The munitions depot was also growing with increasing stores of incendiaries and high explosives. Something was in the air. Everyone felt it and, for once, morale was on the rise.

Within moments of the Peacekeeper's dismissal, Johnson appeared in Corel's doorway.

"Good morning Commander. A bit of excitement on the perimeter?"

"Two unknowns in Whites."

"Two women? One with an injured ankle? They're just a couple of runaways from 8. Surprising that they've made it this far."

 _'How the hell did he know'_ , Corel wondered. "Are they yours?"

"Mine?" asked Milo. "No."

Corel shrugged, and turned his attention back to his breakfast. If these two were just a couple of runaways, they could be dealt with through normal procedures. The situation was obvious, continued discussion unnecessary. He put the matter from his mind.

Johnson took Corel's shrug as the dismissal it admittedly was meant to be. It was an error on Corel's part. Well aware of his position as a personal emissary of President Snow, Milo was not about to be dismissed with a shrug. He took Corel's lack of interest as insolence, and Johnson was not one to meekly accept such treatment. His face clouded over.

"Commander," he continued, his voice dripping with concern, "I swear I will never understand this."

He paused, waiting for Corel to react.

The commander looked up, irritated at this ongoing interruption of his morning routine. "What's to understand?"

Milo continued forcefully, "Honestly, they were safe and secure in their district, had very opportunity to be useful contributors to the welfare of the nation and instead, what do they do? They rebel against the Capitol. Have you read the reports about the civil unrest in District 8? How many Peacekeepers died? How many good, hard working, honest people died? The property damage that was done? The damage to productivity? And what do these two do? They steal uniforms, they defile our honored dead, they steal weapons, and then they flee to a place they're not even certain exists! District 13. Land of rainbows and unicorns."

"You ask if they're mine?" he reiterated. "They are mutinous vermin."

' _What's the big deal?'_ Corel thought. He was now watching Milo carefully, hands resting on his desk, the breakfast before him ignored.

"No one said anything about weapons."

"I guess they must have lost them." Milo sarcastically retorted. Inwardly he was satisfied. The Commander was now acting appropriately attentive. Certainly no longer so high handed. He pressed his lips tight together and then stared at the floor. Slowly the clouds cleared, until all that remained was a sheepish grin. He looked back at Corel.

"Sorry for the rant, Commander. You can see it's a subject I get passionate about. Are they mine? My word no." He actually managed a contemptuous chuckle.

"Status?" asked Corel, his attitude carefully impassive in the face of Milo's outburst.

"Need you ask?" Milo snapped back, the clouds returning. "Sometimes I worry about you, Commander." He snorted a 'good day', spun on his heel and walked out.

Corel shoved his cold and uneaten breakfast to one side and swiveled his chair to stare out a window.

Johnson was still fuming as he strode back to his quarters. His mission was important. That had been impressed on him by the President himself. This base was remote and neglected, but recent events had conspired to turn it into one of strategic importance. Johnson had been given the responsibility of its rejuvenation.

Major events were in the works. The districts were seeing a significant rise in acts of civil disobedience. In some districts, administrators had voiced concerns over possible insurrection. Such organization as the dissenters had manged, centered on Katniss Everdeen, the Mockingjay, a citizen of District 12. The movement threatened to become a unifying force for dissent across all the districts. President Snow, acknowledging those concerns, and aware of the Mockingjay sensation, had determined that a fundamental re-assertion of Capitol authority was in order. This re-assertion would happen in conjunction with the coming Quarter Quell Hunger Games. Milo had been placed in Base 43 with a two-part mission. His orders were to gather information on Everdeen and to see that she that she remained contained and isolated from any underground political swell. (It was puzzling to him how oblivious she seemed.) He was further instructed to prepare the base for military operations that would keep District 13 distracted while pacification of the other districts was underway. Then would come the turn of that final, rebellious district itself.

Commander Corel was a competent officer, Johnson knew that, but he was slow to accept civilian oversight. Milo could not allow the civilian-military divide to obscure the chain of command. For years this base had been run solely at Corel's discretion, but that had changed. By Presidential decree, a new command structure had been imposed, and Milo was on top. Corel needed to understand that, despite being a civilian, he was never to be taken lightly, never to be dismissed. He had his orders, he had his mission, and Corel was an instrument at his disposal. Respect was due, had been earned, and Milo would dominate in his assigned position. He had achieved it not through chance, nor through social status, wealth or family connections. It had taken years of hard work, dedication, and consummate loyalty to President Snow, and to the President's vision for the future of Panem.

* * *

After the death of his mother, Milo's father, always a somewhat distant figure, had become even more remote. It wasn't that he didn't love his son, it was just that he was lost without his wife and had no idea how to manage a young boy. He buried himself and his grief in business affairs. Milo floated in a void, lost and alone. He knew what had happened, had been told what had happened, but somehow that wasn't enough to explain her was warm and loving, happy, affectionate, attentive, playful, always present, gone. He didn't understand.

His father didn't know what to do, how to reach his child or respond to his needs. He decided the best thing was to enrol Milo in a prestigious boarding school, there to be surrounded by other children of his own age and status, and instructors well-versed in child behavior.

Milo adjusted to school life, what choice did he have, but the void never went away.

He was an adequate student and participated in extra-curricular activities in a low-keyed fashion. He had his circle of friends, but no intimates. He was a quiet boy who studiously avoided drawing attention to himself. He progressed. He grew. He learned. His academic standing might not have been stellar, but there were other lessons he learned very well indeed. He learned the effectiveness of bullying, and its limitations, both as a victim and a perpetrator. He learned the value of flattery and manipulation, the power of the right word, in the right ear, at the right time. He learned that an air of authority, coupled with a crisp, clean appearance, was always far more valued, earned much more respect, than talent or ability.

At age 13, all the students at his school were subjected to extensive psychological and IQ testing. Milo tested high on IQ. His social skills were typical for his age group, but he tested low on empathy. He got along well with his peers, but had little interest in their lives. The results were ideal for nomination to the Presidential Youth Administration Corps. This was a select circle of boys who served as messengers and general factotums for President Snow personally. They lived and received their schooling in the Presidential Mansion, and it was the President himself who made the final selection of freshmen to the Corps. It was a proud day when Milo received his appointment. It was his second life altering event.

President Snow took a very personal interest in this group, and they were known throughout the City as "Snow's Boys". He showered them with attention, applauded and rewarded their successes, showed them real affection. Life in the Presidential Mansion was good. They shared opulent quarters, wore custom tailored uniforms, did not want for anything.

It wasn't a free ride. They earned their keep. The boys were on constant duty. They had a full roster of academic studies that included courses in Capitol etiquette and district customs and traditions. This was in addition to running errands, serving at Government functions, and such other duties as deemed appropriate at the President's discretion. They were required to submit reports after each run, each event, detailing who had been present, what they had been doing, what kind of mood they exhibited. The boys were required to learn names and faces, the occupations and concerns of the people with whom they came into contact, and their status within Panem's social structure.

"You must cultivate a sympathetic ear, become a friend, a confidant, to all." said the President. "That is the course to hear things that will set the world on fire. You must smile, be outgoing and engaging. The work you do is important and everyone knows it, but take care not to become officious. Make people want to like you. Expect respect, and if you find it lacking, report it. Be observant: small details can make a big difference."

The boys, Milo above all, took this to heart and applied themselves to winning Snow's approval.

Throughout the Capitol, people knew that, in the presence of Snow's Boys, life was good, Panem was growing and prosperous, and the president was a paragon of administrative virtue. A Snow's Boys report could lead to reward and advancement... or to utter ruin.

The demands on the boys increased with the passing years, and many were not able to keep up. Those who failed the expectations were "sent down". With few exceptions this was no detriment to their prospects. Simply having been part of the Corps remained a feather in their caps: it was a small and elite group. Most had made contacts sufficient to carry them into their adult careers.

Milo excelled in this environment. The President filled the aching void left by his mother's death, and Milo's commitment to him became absolute. The work was hard, but well worth the effort. The rewards were obvious. He dug in his heels, faced the ever increasing workload head-on. He rose within the Corps.

At the age of twenty-one, he received the extraordinary honor of a private dinner with the President. Snow greeted him effusively, embracing him and personally leading him to the table. The meal was magnificent, but it was the conversation that made the evening.

Milo knew, of course, that this was his last year with the Youth Corps, his last year as one of Snow's Boys. He was at the top of the order, that tiny group known as "Eldest". Having attained that level, members received appointments to various government departments. Some were attached to the military (always in civilian capacities), but most ended up in administrative positions. Their Youth Corps training never went away, and their careers were focused on doctrinal purity and loyalty to the President. Regular reunions kept all of Snow's Boys, past and present, in touch, and resulted in a close and closed fraternal network. There was no pedigree that could attain faster access to the President himself.

Snow congratulated Milo on his time in the Corps and, after some brief exchanges concerning the present membership, got down to business.

"Your time in the Corps has been exemplary." Snow said. "From the first, I saw that you were outstanding in your work ethic and dedication. You've never disappointed."

Milo beamed.

"I have high expectations of all my boys, and as they mature into men, those expectations do not diminish.

"I've been following your independent project with great interest. You've posited some interesting beliefs."

The independent project was a thesis required from each of the Youth Corps members. Work started on it at age seventeen and continued for the next four years. The choice of topic was critical to each of Snow's Boys as it determined the course of their career after the Corps.

Milo interjected quietly, "You know my interest in the subject."

Snow regarded him, nodded, then continued, "I think it's worth pursuing, and I'd like to see you in a position to transform theory into practical application. I'd like to see where those trails lead, wouldn't you?"

Milo nodded in return.

"There's a small group of graduates from the Corps that has no formal designation. Informally, for accounting purposes, they are known as consultants. I confess that I think of them as an elite."

Milo looked at him expectantly.

"I want you to continue your researches. I want you to become a consultant."

This was it. This was the highest level a graduate of the Youth Corps could attain. It was everything Milo could do not to leap from his chair and start dancing around the room. He drew a long, controlled breath before responding simply, "It's an honor. Thank you."

Now it was Snow's turn to beam. "The demands will be incredible, but I believe you are up to them. You will travel this country as few others, dedicating yourself to its stability and security. You will report exclusively to me, and I will be constantly monitoring your progress. In the Districts, you will be my eyes and ears."

"It's an opportunity I've hardly dared to dream. Thank you. I will not disappoint." Milo replied.

Snow chuckled. "Of that I am certain. In your capacity as consultant, you will have immense authority, derived directly from me; sometimes that will be known, more often not, but you will always have it. The greatest danger in your work will be abuse of that authority. Your every action will be under constant review, and I will be taking a very personal interest in all that you do. Be true to your training. Maintain a low profile, be a listener, and let your strongest weapon be persuasion."

It was the proudest moment of Milo's life, and when he left the dinner, he felt himself burning with excitement fueled by a fervent passion. He had graduated from the Youth Corps and taken his place in the select circle of Snow's consultants. The President himself had entrusted him with a role vital to the welfare Panem. He was one of the privileged few designated to set things straight.

* * *

And now he was here, at Base 43, practically within spitting distance of the heart of Panem's troubles. He had a job to do, and he needed all the cooperation he could get to complete it. Corel needed to understand that Johnson did not involve himself in activities easily dismissed. If a matter was worth Johnson's attention, then Johnson should decide its resolution. Corel dismissed him at his peril.

Admittedly, this business of the runaways was mundane. Such things were routine matters here at Base 43, but Milo had clearly stated his knowledge of these two. That should have been enough to cause Corel to seek his input and defer to his decision and, after all, he had eventually done that. Milo was cooling off now. He really hadn't had anything to say that might alter Corel's standard response to the situation. "Be true to your training." ' _Listen... persuade. Don't be officious.'_ Perhaps he was overreacting. These were, after all, stressful times.

The women caught outside the fence soon confessed to being exactly as Johnson described: runaways from District 8. Capitol records showed them to be Twill Johns, and Bonnie Elliston – presumed dead after the unrest in their home district. They were charged with multiple offenses, convicted by tribunal, and summarily executed. The Capitol's presumption was eased into fact.

 **2**

Daryl Boggs sat in the Command Centre for the weekly logistics briefing with President Coin. The usual group of department heads had gathered to discuss the day to day operation of District 13. The meeting had run its course and was winding down. Every department needed more than the district could supply. Materials shortages, maintenance priorities, personnel allocations, all were chronic issues with no definitive solutions in sight. Keeping District 13 up and running was a day to day challenge.

Remus Thread, head of External Networks (Supply), was speaking: "Yes, unrest in the districts is at an all-time high, but it lacks co-ordination. As you know, Everdeen's actions in the last Games were perceived as a deliberate challenge to the Capitol's authority, and that has inspired increased agitation. Our agents have encouraged this, but the districts are undisciplined and difficult to direct. The uprising in 8 is a good example: it was premature, and the result predictable. The Capitol's response in that district and throughout the country has been draconian, but not unexpected. Peacekeeper vigilance is at an all time high. All of our networks, our supply lines, are suffering. This is why we need more cooperation between, indeed integration of, the supply and the political networks. We need the unity of purpose that can only be achieved through unity of command."

"We are all well aware of your desire to amalgamate the networks," replied the department head for External Networks (Political), "but so long as you rely for supplies on overtly criminal elements, we can't take the risk that your people won't betray our political and intelligence agents simply for their own personal profit... or to save their own personal necks"

Remus' face visibly reddened, and he gripped the briefcase sitting on his lap. He was about to respond when President Coin rapped the table for attention. She surveyed the two department heads. "At this time, I think it is advantageous to have more than one network operating in each district, though there may be some room for a cross-over of responsibilities. We'll leave the subject open for discussion at a later date."

"On a different note." she said, deftly changing the subject, "We have managed to get some information on the quarter quell. For the time being this is classified information and not to leave this room, but as chiefs within this district, and dedicated to our cause, your views and opinions are always valued. We now know that the arena will be shaped like a giant clock, each hourly sector with a unique, time-specific hazard, and that former Victors will be reaped."

There was a murmur of surprise and protest from around the table.

"That means Everdeen's going back in."

"That's probably the point: she is the Mockingjay after all." said the political spymaster. "It's a nice touch. Snow is clever."

Coin said. "It is our continuing interest in Everdeen and the Mockingjay phenomenon that makes discussion of these Games germane to our deliberations."

Remus interjected, "But can we allow it to happen? Look: the Mockingjay came out of nowhere. Who could have anticipated that this girl and that emblem would have such a galvanizing effect? Is it an opportunity we can afford to lose?"

"What can we do? You know the problem with engineering a rescue from 12: easily accomplished, but the repercussions would be devastating. It would trigger a direct confrontation with the Capitol, and entirely on their terms. For any such confrontation, we need the support of the districts. As volatile as they are, we haven't got that support yet, and getting it seems to depend on how we play the Everdeen card. We need to be very public in doing that, and a rescue from District 12 would not be public at all – the Capitol would see to that. Their response would be extremely damaging, and the other districts would not even be aware of the conflict. We don't have the strength to take on the Capitol alone, nor can we afford a blockade even tighter than that we currently face." said Coin.

"She's not likely to survive a second Games. If the other tributes don't get her, the Capitol is sure to find a way. They're hardly oblivious to the impact she's had." said Boggs.

"We will not provoke the Capitol with an incursion into 12." said Coin.

With no further comments forthcoming, the meeting moved on to other topics. It drew to a close, and the various participants prepared to leave. Remus Thread, the only one with papers on the table, shuffled them together and put them in his briefcase. He was soon gone, as were most of the others. Only those few scheduled to attend the subsequent security meeting stayed behind.

Coin watched him leave, then looked to Boggs. "Remus Thread." she sighed. "What do you think?"

"Obviously, Remus is jockeying for position." he replied. "I suppose it's to be expected. His Capitol conditioning runs deep."

Coin nodded. "He's been very good in his position. He has real management ability in a difficult situation, and there's no denying that the flow of supplies to us from the other districts has improved under his watch."

"But... ?" asked Boggs.

"He's Capitol." said Coin. "All of us here are District 13 born and bred, except for him. And he's here due to circumstances, not because of any personal conviction. I just can't help but feel that he should be kept out of the loop with regard to our more classified deliberations."

"There would be obvious efficiencies in amalgamating the external networks.'' she continued (the political department head looked grim), "We need everything we can get, and we need it with the minimum expenditure of resources that can be managed. This Peacekeeper crackdown has hurt. That's undeniable. Our political and military goals, perhaps even the fate of the district, hang by a thread."

She gave an ironic chuckle. "I suppose its cruel to say, and hopefully uncalled for, but I would not want to see those goals hung by a Thread, if you take my meaning." She gave the others a significant look. The political department head, still looking grim, nodded in agreement.

"If you're that distrusting, why leave him in charge of such sensitive operations?"

"Because he delivers." she replied. "But you are correct that my trust extends only so far. At the present time, I can't see my way to allow him the necessary security clearances that would be required if the networks were amalgamated. I don't want him in our military and political councils."

"And where did he get that briefcase?" she added.

There was a general laugh from around the table, and Boggs said, "I wouldn't have imagined there was one in the whole district."

Coin looked at the agenda displayed on a small screen before her.

"So. Our plan to free the tributes." she said, "Are we still concentrating our efforts on an arena rescue? What have we told our allies in the districts?"

"The most trusted among them are aware of the plan. Some of them are past victors themselves and may end up in the arena."

"Are we agreed that it seems prudent at this time to allow events to take their natural course, and to lay low?"

"At this point, we don't have much choice."

"My understanding is that the most immediate impediment will be the arena's force field. Can it be disabled from within?" asked Coin.

"We're working on that here, and our operatives in District 3 in particular are concentrating their efforts on force field vulnerabilities. Special efforts are being taken to keep in touch with them. Their tributes will be most likely to have the necessary technical expertise." said Boggs.

"It can't be destroyed from with-out?"

The head of Scientific Research and Development spoke up: "According to Plutarch, the field is extraordinarily intense. There are more generators than usual along the circumference, any one of which could support the entire field, though not at its full intended rating. One purpose of so many generators is to supply the power surplus necessary for the lightning strikes planned in the 12 o'clock sector, and there are other power requirements that will be also without precedent. There are maintenance crews on hand and, the military tells us, a sufficient Peacekeeper force to deter attack by Nomes. Military intelligence feels that we might be able to take out a couple of generators, but there would be an overwhelming Capitol response before the job could be completed. Our only hope is in the nature of the field, that it cannot withstand disruption from within. Certainly an attack on it from inside the arena would be totally unexpected. Can the tributes cause a disruption on a scale sufficient to bring the thing down? Whatever they do will have to trigger a whole cascade of failures. It seems unlikely but, surprisingly, current thinking is that it may be possible. We can use the power of the arena against itself."

Silence pervaded the room.

"I wonder if there's any way to rig the Reaping?" mused Coin. "Can we be confident that at least some of the Victors reaped will be supportive of our cause?"

"Undoubtedly," said the spymaster. "and we can bounce the business of rigging tribute selections off Plutarch. As Head Gamemaker, if anyone can do it, it ought to be him. The whole business of reaping Victors is sure to be very unpopular, most of all with them. Some are already on our side. Others will cross over. Once the tributes have been selected, we hope that between them and their mentors, our plans can be firmed up. A lot of it will be done on the fly."

"Katniss, however, is not in on the plan and, so far, she's the only one we can be certain will be there." said Boggs.

"Well, isn't that how this whole plan got started?"

"It's just that it looks so grim for her."

"It doesn't look good for any of them. It never does. It will be useful if we can rescue Ms Everdeen," said Coin, "but not essential. I favor an emphasis on saving the Melark boy. Much of Ms Everdeen's popularity stems from his input, and he seems to have an innate popular appeal. Ms Everdeen's death would preclude her saying or doing anything that might lessen the Mockingjay's impact, while simultaneously creating an unassailable martyr. The Melark boy's obviously smitten with her. Grief fueled eulogizing might be just what we need."

"It's all moot if we can't disable the force field."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

The meeting moved on to other topics.

* * *

At the Peacekeeper Base, Johnson and Corel had just concluded a weekly meeting of their own. Johnson had a taste for visual aids was was gathering up his papers and charts. Reports on the progress of the base refurbishment, personnel issues, readiness status, surveillance of Districts 12 and 13, littered the small conference room table. He picked up the report of compiled data from the observation posts around 13.

"District 13." he sneered. "They would tear this nation down." He stuffed the report into a portfolio.

Corel stretched, yawned, and gave a non-committal grunt.

"How fortunate we are to live in Panem." Milo said it almost to himself. "All the wars, all the plagues, all the natural disasters, and Panem not only survives, it thrives. We are a pool of light in the darkness of the world. There has never been a nation such as ours. Look at the Capitol: a shining beacon for all to see. Generations of hard work, determination and grit went into building it." He looked up at Corel. "Those people didn't whine about rights and privileges; they worked hard, put their backs into it, and they reaped the harvest. It's what every district should aspire to, what every district should strive to achieve. Yet indolence and selfishness remain as the one enduring plague that infests the nation. This foolish sense of entitlement... it kills motivation and strangles initiative... and it is the bread and butter of District 13."

He returned to gathering his papers.

"13 is under control." said Corel.

Milo fired him a sharp look. "Don't underestimate them, Commander. They are a festering pestilence. I confess that I would like to see is every hole filled, every tunnel crushed, every living thing in there dead, and the earth salted so that nothing could ever grow there again."

* * *

Remus left the Command Center headed for his office in Special Defense. He was angry and agitated. This was one of those days when dealing with these provincials was nothing less than a trial. How could they not see the advantages of combining the networks? They didn't trust him. That was the undeniable conclusion: after all these years in the district, all his undisputed productivity, they still didn't trust him. It was all just petty jealousy. They knew his background, his education, his experience. His superior talent as an administrator was self evident, but they were jealously protective of their little fiefdoms. Years he had been in this dull and dreary little place. Had he ever complained? Had he not been fully cooperative and proved his usefulness time and again? Yet still he was treated as an outsider. Untrustworthy. Suspect.

He paused a moment to gaze through a window into the humming bird room that Special Defense had so carefully added to this underground world. The colorful tiny birds flitted from blossom to blossom in a veritable paradise. Subjects for flight research. Maintaining this single room required a massive expenditure of resources. He had lobbied for its discontinuance but, of course, had been rebuffed. He shook his head disconsolately. This was the sort of extravagance you might expect from the Capitol, but could they see that? Well, at least it was a pretty thing to look at.

Remus had been in District 13 for three years.

* * *

He was the son, one of twins, of a modestly successful Capitol family. He had been groomed for a career in the Civil Service, while his brother, Romulus, was steered into the military. The family was hedging its bets... hoping that the brothers could advance their fortunes on two different fronts.

Romulus embraced his career and seemed on a solid trajectory of advancement. He gloried in the superiority of his family's position, honed his body and mind to enforce and maintain that superiority, and brooked no insubordination.

Remus lacked any similar drive, and Romulus despised him for it. Between them there was always a stiffness that stemmed from disapproval, unspoken but tangible.

Remus was not happy in his position. The work was tedious and offered little opportunity for advancement. The Civil Service was run by appointees who warranted their positions only through slavish devotion to the President and enormous expenditures of money for 'political contributions'. His family could not afford such bribes and, consequently, his life was devoted to making higher ranking, incompetent flunkies look good. And the condescension! How galling it was to do all the work and then be treated with dismissive contempt by inept fools who took all the credit. It had proved too much for Remus.

A project oversight tour of tenement construction in District 5 had disclosed that the primary contractor was charging exorbitant fees for substandard materials. Further, he was requiring enormous kick-backs from all his sub-contractors. The construction was behind schedule, over budget, and dangerously unstable. Remus had seen similar on every project he had ever visited, but never to this degree. He took it upon himself to write a personal report to his Head of Department outlining and documenting the excesses. As it transpired, the contractor was a distant cousin of President Snow's wife. Remus was called before his superior and severely dressed down for grossly exaggerating the situation. Later that evening, talking to an oddly familiar man named Acacious Bloom (a traveling tax consultant from the Capitol), he commented that Snow must be past his prime if he was that much under the thumb of his wife.

The next morning, Remus found himself summarily removed from the project and recalled to the Capitol. On arrival, he was greeted with a wall of chill disapproval. Days later he was on a hovercraft headed for a site in the remote wilderness to report on maintenance crews servicing the high speed railroad infrastructure.

He never reached the site. An explosion aboard the hovercraft sent it into a spiraling crash.

Had he been rescued by 13? Or taken Prisoner?

* * *

The hummingbirds darted about as Remus stared into their so carefully reconstructed habitat.

That was the beginning of his life here. His family and social connections in the Capitol, and his knowledge of the power structure there, had made him immediately valuable to 13's intelligence community. The practical experience of having repeatedly visited each of the Districts increased his value. He melded smoothly into that community. His background and cultivated sense of entitled authority had carried him up through the ranks, but now he had hit some invisible ceiling and could not find his way through.

Remus was excluded from most military discussions, but when it came to the all too near Capitol base, his insights were sometimes sought. Reports from the observation posts monitoring the base were ominous. Photographic evidence demonstrated that Snow himself had visited there just prior to his mysterious appearance in District 12. He had not been alone, and Remus was once again able to demonstrate his worth to his adopted district. He had a disturbing familiarity with the man who had remained at the base after the President had departed.

It came as a bit of a surprise even to himself, when Remus recognized him as Acacious Bloom, that tax consultant from the Capitol. On reflection, he realized that he had met the man before: first in District 11 as Julius Buchanan, a consulting specialist in microbial infestations, and several years later in District 7 as a systems analyst named Lucius Rappaport. It was clear now: this was a Gray Man. 'Gray Men', as they were known in the Capitol, were a tight circle of informants and spies who reported directly, and exclusively, to President Snow.

District 13 was not without its own covert resources, and their network of agents in the Capitol had ferreted out yet another name: Milo Johnson. But why was he at Base 43? He had quickly become a ubiquitous presence. The tolerance shown him by the base commander, and the deference paid him by the other personnel, clearly demonstrated that he wielded considerable authority.

"He would." was all Remus had to add.

Even more troublesome, certainly to 13's military branch, was an impressive bolstering of the base's military capacity. In the last several months, what had been a squadron of a dozen hovercraft had more than doubled in size. The older craft were being significantly refurbished, and the newer craft were state-of-the-art. The air power at the base was becoming a significant threat to 13.

Supply planes were bringing in large quantities of munitions as well. Heavily shrouded, the nature of the shipments was difficult to determine. But rumors, gleaned from tenuous contacts with certain malcontents on the base, suggested that high explosive and incendiary bombs were being received in quantity, and that the emphasis was on the incendiaries.

The situation in District 12 was changing as well. Remus was surprised to hear that his own brother, Romulus, had been appointed Head Peacekeeper in that district, and the Peacekeeper garrison was growing at a significant rate.

Something was brewing.

 **3**

At Base 43, Milo Johnson was satisfied with the progress being made. By the time winter had eased into spring, the formerly shoddy and neglected facility was starting to look like a proper Peacekeeper installation, a force to contend with. Corel was a competent enough commander and would prove entirely capable of managing the forthcoming actions, actions that Milo anticipated with relish.

He was obsessed with District 13.

As he told Corel: "You see it every day. Your purpose here is to keep an eye on District 13. You know them as well as anyone: that tiny group of self-righteous, self-serving, would-be tyrants. Given half a chance, they'd steal rightful, and just, government from the people of Panem for their own selfish enrichment, and impose their own false and barbaric beliefs on the entire nation. We do our best to isolate and contain that cancer, we do our best to spare our citizens the anxiety of its very existence, but it is insidious. Its tentacles reach out to corrupt the minds of people, so that we face constant strife, constant rebellion. And there are plenty of takers... weak, lazy, stupid people looking for a free ride."

"Is that what all this is about?" asked Corel. "Are we planning an attack on 13?" Despite the changes to the base, he had received no update to his standing orders.

"No." replied Johnson. It was a quiet, off-the-cuff 'no', as though he wasn't really considering the question. He had to wrench himself free of his thoughts on District 13 to bring his attention back to Corel. "The upgrades to the base are because it needs it. This base and those outside the other districts have been neglected. President Snow has determined that an unfortunate laxity in Peacekeeper Command had resulted in a deterioration in the Command's response capabilities. These matters are being addressed... at all levels."

Corel had received no word of any such clampdown, and his sources did not consist solely of official channels. A purge of Peacekeeper Command could hardly be kept under wraps, but he wasn't about to argue.

"Hmph." he acknowledged. "Don't really see much point in taking 13 on. All our indicators are that the district is failing all on its own. I suppose intervention might become necessary at some point. We wouldn't want their technical capacity to fade to the point where their nuclear component is compromised. But until then, why put men at risk and waste materiel when time will solve most of the problem for us."

This response did not please Johnson. "They are a thorn in the heel of Panem."

"It's a thoroughly contained thorn. The one or two runaways who filter through these woods certainly aren't going to make any difference."

"Those runaways prove the point. They prove that 13 is active in our world, a source of unrest and agitation."

"They're as likely to end up here as there. A few disgruntled are unavoidable. We deal with them as needs be. And 13 has its disaffected as well. They show up here every now and then... runaways seeking asylum."

"In my opinion, anyone who would seek that place out, anyone who would ever so much as lift a finger to help them, who would ever do anything but fight them tooth and nail, is beyond redemption. I have no time for such people. They are cockroaches and deserve to be exterminated."

"Well, we're not quite fighting them tooth and nail, at least not at the moment, but our blockade is just as effective, if not quite so fast. We have overwhelming superiority on every front. Let them sputter away and die."

' _They'll n_ _ot_ _sputter_ _for much longer._ ' Milo thought. ' _The reckoning is coming._ '

But for now: the Mockingjay was securely in her nest, Romulus Thread had District 12 firmly in hand, Base 43 was shaping up nicely, and District 13 was as contained as it had ever been.

In the meantime, there was other work to be done.

* * *

Remus arrived at his office to find Felix Bundy waiting outside. Bundy was a runner, one of 13's agents charged with infiltrating the districts to maintain the thin trickle of supplies so vital to 13's existence. The district simply did not have the resources to survive on its own and relied on goods smuggled out of areas under Capitol control. Especially vital were the electronics from District 3. Technologically dependent District 13 would shudder to a halt without them.

The networks were administered on 13's end by Remus and were run in the districts sometimes by the disaffected, sometimes by bribed officials, and sometimes by out-and-out gangsters. With unease throughout Panem on the rise, his role was becoming increasingly important... and difficult. Bundy had just returned from a trip to District 6.

Remus had barely opened his office door before Bundy was babbling away. "Listen Remus," he said breathlessly, "they've rolled up that new network in 6. Arrested the lot of them. Hung them. It wasn't even operational yet."

"And the existing network?" asked Remus.

"Still around, but Argus wants a meet."

"What do you mean, 'still around'?"

"Argus has turned off the tap."

"Why?"

"He wants a meet."

"A meet with who?"

"With you!"

"What good would that do? It's out of the question."

Dealing with Bundy was always a trial. It was the man's attitude. So familiar. No sense of command structure, no sense of hierarchy. It was a general problem here in 13: no appreciation of status... political, social or otherwise. Some of these clowns even felt free to walk right up and start talking to President Coin. He'd seen the distaste on her face and knew she felt as he did. He sighed, longing for the social niceties of the Capitol.

"Well, he wanted a meet with President Coin, but I think even he knew that wasn't going to happen. I bargained him down to you." said Bundy. "He says it's gotten too hot for business as usual. The Peacekeepers are really applying the screws."

"He wants more money." said Remus. "There's none to give him."

 _'Argus Oglethorpe_ ,' thought Remus, ' _Victor,_ _thug, pain in the ass.'_ He was head of the smuggling ring District 13 had established in 6. Oglethorpe had won his Games thirty-odd years before with a display of gut-wrenching viciousness. His post-Games activities had continued along the same lines. He ran such rackets as a district like 6 could sustain... loansharking, gambling, prostitution, liquor and drugs. He was a thief and a receiver of stolen goods, with a sideline in blackmail. Brutality remained an active part of his stock and trade. He was also a born organizer and a charismatic leader, as smooth as a snake and every bit as trustworthy. Half of the district's Capitol staff was on his payroll, and the other half owed him money. He had probably found out about the new network and turned them in himself; had probably been handsomely rewarded for doing it.

Remus was no match for Argus except that he had District 13 at his back... and he knew it.

"You know the guy, Remus. There won't be anything more coming out of 6 until he's happy. What am I supposed to do? Appeal to his better nature?"

Remus sighed. It was unavoidable. Regardless of the risk, he would have to go to 6 and come to terms with Argus.

* * *

The wedding of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Melark provided an opportunity. Snow himself had decided to make the event a national spectacle, and the selection of Katniss' wedding dress was an event within the event.

Remus had heard of the confrontation between his brother, Romulus, and Katniss. At the time, it had seemed a matter of little importance, but her injuries had resulted in the postponement of the wedding dress selection. The rescheduled date was known to District 13. Viewing in all districts would be mandatory, which meant that large crowds would gather in public places. The Peacekeepers would be on full alert, but their attention would be on mob dynamics, not on individuals. It was an opportunity to be an anonymous face in the crowd. A meeting could be arranged under such circumstances.

He sent the usual notices of his intent to leave the district and continued with other business pending the necessary clearances.

It was one of those days when focus and concentration were simply not on the menu. Sometimes District 13 just got him down. He sat at his desk and stared at the room around him. It was drab, like everything else in this place: plain metal chairs, utilitarian gray metal desk, walls unadorned except for the electronic bulletin board across from him. Somewhere he had scrounged an old metal file cabinet. He seemed to be the only person in 13 who kept paper files; it was another point that evoked only disdain.

He stared at the bulletin board and imagined it to be a window... a window high in the sky with a view over the candy-colored buildings of the Capitol. He imagined a spacious office with rosewood paneling hung with some fine old paintings, and an ancient hand-knotted carpet covering the polished hardwood floor. His desk was elegantly sculpted, decorated with parquetry of exotic veneers and fittings of ormolu, softly glowing gold over bronze. He sat enfolded in a deeply plush office chair upholstered in leather as soft as a cloud. A pretty secretary was at his beck and call; employees and associates treated him with due respect and deference. He could almost hear the bustle of the city outside and imagined an evening of music at a club, perhaps a theater outing, fine dining in a fashionable restaurant.

A brief flicker of the harsh fluorescent light brought him back to reality. If the power went out in this underground warren (which had been known to happen) he would not be able to see his hand in front of his face. Even if he groped his way into the corridor, he still would not be able to see his hand in front of his face. But the power did not go out; instead, the bulletin board flashed the approval for his trip.

* * *

Of necessity, the journey to District 6 was an ordeal in itself. Remus and Bundy traveled without escort, carrying packs that contain a meager supply of rations to see them through the trip. They left 13 at night, through a secret exit tunneled far beyond the fence. It was raining, windy and cold, and they had to travel a full day on foot just to connect with a train making its rounds between the districts. Bribed guards looked the other way as the two hopped a freight car. They were fortunate that the train had only one other district stop before their destination. At every stop, every car was inspected, attempted runaways being so common. They had to leave the train before it entered the district and work their way to a point where they could reconnect as it left. Bundy was as accustomed to this travel as a person could get. He had contacts in every district to help them along the way. Remus had previously visited districts on 13's behalf, always in the company of a runner, but he was never going to like it.

The timing, at least, turned out to be good. The two found themselves outside the District 6 fence just one day before the scheduled televised event. Having stowed their packs carefully out of sight, Bundy entered 6 in his usual fashion. He introduced Remus to a contact named Clement, a short, thin man with sparse hair and a mousy appearance who showed all the spirit and enthusiasm of a beaten dog. Clement took charge of the two of them, and moved them close to the meeting point, hiding them along the way in secret places.

The district was abuzz with talk of the forthcoming wedding, and the imminent display of Katniss' gowns. Remus marveled at how involved the people had become with this girl who none of them even knew. Her story had completely captured the public imagination. The few people Remus encountered through Bundy clearly wanted to see her as more than a fairy tale hero. They were desperate and looked to her as a beacon of hope, even a focus of rebellion. She had defied the Capitol, and the Capitol had backed down. She had ignited an unprecedented flicker of hope. He wondered if Coin understood the magnitude of this force, if Snow did?

It was a simple matter to infiltrate the city square on the evening of the telecast. Dressed as locals and shuffling along as just two more faces in a growing crowd, Bundy and Remus passed through cordons of Peacekeepers without notice.

The square before the Justice Building was jam packed when they arrived. It was a struggle for the two of them to worm their way towards its center. Clement had disappeared. Buffeted from every direction by the restless crowd, Remus craned his head in an effort to look around. Night had fallen, but the weather was mercifully calm and had turned unexpectedly warm. All around them, the mood was of excited anticipation.

"What now?" he asked.

"Argus knows we're here." said Bundy. "His people are looking for us. They'll make contact soon enough."

The crowd teemed around them, each person jostling for the best view of the large monitors set around the square. The surrounding noise swelled and ebbed and swelled again until the screens flickered into life. Ceasar Flickerman, Panem's imperishable emcee, pranced onto the stage before the President's mansion. All attention turned to the Capitol's production unfolding before them.

"Where is he?" Remus was becoming agitated. He didn't like dealing with Argus, and the sooner this ordeal was over, the better.

"He's not coming." came a curt reply, but it didn't come from Bundy.

Remus spun to face its unknown source.

"Hello Remus." continued the congenial voice, and Remus found himself face to face with Milo Johnson.

 **4**

Trying desperately to maintain an impassive expression, Remus turned back to the large video monitors suspended above the square, refusing to acknowledge that Milo could possibly have been talking to him.

"Oh, really!" said Milo. "Are you seriously going to play that card?"

Remus suddenly found Bundy and himself in the center of a circle of very large and intimidating men.

Milo tapped him on the shoulder. "If you insist: Remus Thread, I am placing you under arrest in the name of the State of Panem. Hows that? Nice and official? All comfy cozy?"

Remus gave up his pretense and spun to face Milo again. "And who are you this time!" he demanded.

"Well, for the formality of the situation, I'm Milo Johnson, but you already knew that."

"Well... Milo Johnson... you don't dare try anything here! You're in the middle of a mob that adores the Mockingjay and hates you. This could get very ugly, very fast."

Milo staggered back. "What?" he sputtered, his face coloring with rage and indignation. "Would you try start a riot? Do you realize what that would do? The damage? The arrests? The injuries? The deaths? Do you realize the punishments that would be inflicted on the entire district as a result?"

Remus stared him down, his face a mask of grim determination.

The anger melted from Milo's face, replaced with his boyish grin. He leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, "Let's find out!"

With a nod to his squad, the entire group began to bulldoze its way to the edge of the square. Cries of shock, pain and anger erupted as people were shoved, elbowed and punched out the way. Fights broke out in their wake and spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass. Remus heard breaking glass, saw bottles and bricks flying through the air. A curl of black smoke swirled past.

The group pushed relentlessly toward the edge of the square, toward a group of waiting Peacekeepers, armored in full riot gear, carrying shields and batons. As they approached, their Captain saw them and snapped to attention. He flashed Milo a brisk salute as the group passed through the loose Peacekeeper line. Behind him, Remus heard the orders in rapid succession: "Fall in! Close ranks! Advance!" A rhythmic beating of batons against shields started up as the Peacekeepers waded into the melee.

Milo and his team, Remus and Bundy in tow, continued away from the square, down a deserted street to an intersection where a black van waited just out of sight around a corner. The rear doors opened, Bundy and Remus were flung inside where waiting Peacekeepers handcuffed them and shoved them onto wooden benches. Milo clambered in after them and the doors slammed shut.

"What about the others?" asked Remus in a sullen voice.

"Not your problem, is it?" replied Milo, as the van accelerated away from the square.

"Where are you taking us?"

Milo did not answer.

 _'It figures_ ,' thought Remus despondently, ' _that Argus would be no match for a_ _G_ _ray_ _M_ _an_.'

After a short drive, the van came to a stop and the rear doors opened onto a deserted underground parking lot. Bundy and Remus were manhandled from the van and the much reduced group proceeded to a nearby elevator that took them up several floors and opened on a nondescript corridor. They were marched along to a door where Remus' handcuffs were removed. He was shoved into the room, closely followed by Milo. The guards continued down the corridor, Bundy between them, as Milo closed the door behind him.

The room was plush: tastefully decorated and finely furnished. Torchiere corner lamps provided a soft glow of indirect light. Near the room's center, a dinner table had been set for two with fine linens, crystal glassware, fine china and silverware. From a nearby sideboard came the scent of food freshly prepared.

"So good to get away from all that ruckus." said Milo. "Don't you find it exhausting?"

"What do you want?" asked Remus, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had clamped tight.

"To talk!" came the reply. "Isn't that obvious? A quiet conversation. Nothing more."

He took a plate from the table and proceeded to the sideboard. "The food is basic, but palatable." he said, serving himself thin slices of roast beef, green peas in a cream sauce, and thinly sliced roast potatoes. "Well, its not the Capitol, is it. Have some food. Have some wine. Relax."

It was luxury such as Remus had not seen in years. He stood, indecisive and wary, unmoved from the spot to which he had stumbled on being shoved into the room. His posture was stooped, defensive. Looking around him, he saw no immediate threat. He and Milo were apparently alone. _'Yeah, alone.'_ he thought. _'_ _E_ _xcept for the cameras and microphones and the_ _P_ _eacekeepers under the table.'_ But there were no Peacekeepers under the table, just Milo sitting down with a plate full of food. Remus decided to play along. Something had to be coming. He took a plate from the table and aggressively filled it to overflowing. With a loud clatter, he dropped the plate back onto the table, slumped into the chair across from Johnson and glowered at him. Milo lifted a decanter of red wine and filled their glasses.

"Eat." said Milo, taking a sip of wine.

As Remus leaned forward, compliantly reaching for knife and fork, a faintly heard wail permeated the room. Remus straightened in his chair, withdrawing his hands to rest his fingers on the edge of the table. "What was that?" he asked.

"What was what?" responded Milo, taking a mouthful of meat and potatoes.

A shriller scream was faintly heard.

"That!" said Remus.

Milo looked up attentively as yet another cry of pain filtered into the room.

"Oh, that." he said as the sounds became shriller, more frequent and sustained. "Well, you see, you and I, we can sit here and have a conversation. We're civilized people. We understand the niceties of dialectic. A conversation between the two of us might be expected to bear fruit. District people, on the other hand, are coarser. Experience has taught us that the most effective means of extracting information is to be direct and forceful. Your friend, Mr. Bundy, is being questioned elsewhere. Not so much a conversation as an examination."

Remus paled as another shriek penetrated the walls. "Well, stop it! I can't even think! How can you?"

Milo looked surprised. He produced a small, hand held communicator and activated it. The door opened and a Peacekeeper stood there at attention. "Our other guest is disturbing our dinner." said Milo. "Please ask the interviewer to discontinue his session." The Peacekeeper closed the door and a period of quiet ensued.

Remus sat staring at the food in front of him, his face a mask of despair. Milo watched him dispassionately, then shrugged dismissively.

"I can see you're distracted," he said, "but do make an effort to pay attention." He snapped his fingers in front of Remus' face and drew a startled response. "I realize, we, the Capitol that is, realize that you have had a rough time. Your whole family has. That matter in District 5, your problem with the contractors, well... we do feel you over reacted and were somewhat indiscreet. There was anger on both sides and, perhaps, over reaction as well. You did receive a slight demotion and perhaps your family was made to feel somewhat discomfited in certain social circles."

"Snow tried to kill me." said Remus.

"What?" asked Milo in evident surprise. "Oh no, that's not true."

"He had the hovercraft I was traveling in shot down."

"Is that what you believe?" asked Milo, his voice incredulous. "Do you really think the Capitol has hovercraft to throw away? No. No. No. We were shocked when that plane went missing. Shocked! A search was organized, the wreckage found, a full scale investigation initiated. It was quite a mystery. The remains of the crew were found, but you had disappeared. Shot down? No. No. No. It was a mechanical failure in the hover mechanism. That was an important finding. Turned out to be a design flaw in that particular model. But you were gone. There was evidence that the site had somehow been pilfered. We feared the worst. Imagine our surprise when you just as mysteriously re-appeared in District 13. District 13, of all places! As criminal an enterprise as exists in our world."

"They took me in, healed me, gave me a place to live and a position of responsibility."

"And apparently filled your head with a lot of nonsense."

"My parents were placed under house arrest and exiled from the Capitol. My brother was demoted."

"Your parents suffered some social discomfort and decided to spend some time on their ancestral estates. Your brother is thriving in his present position and very well regarded by his superiors. His current appointment is no demotion, it's an important, strategic, placement.

"You were born and raised in the Capital." continued Milo. "You know what it's like. It's true that sometimes people can seem petty, but I doubt that it's any different in the districts. With time, people get over things. Essentially we're good. Minds and opinions have changed, decisions have been made concerning you and yours. Corrections."

Remus sat, silently listening.

"It is unfortunate that events unfolded as they have, but the situation may have a silver lining. Already I can assure you that your parents have returned to the Capitol. They have been released from the perceived cloud that hung over your family. Everyone would be happy to see you restored to your rightful place as well. What a surprise to your friends... Remus Thread, resurrected!

"I can't imagine what life must be like in 13. How bleak an existence. Is it true that everyone eats in communal halls off shared communal plates, that every hour of every day is regulated, that everyone wears the same recycled clothing, that an individual hasn't so much as their own water cup?"

Remus contemplated the finely prepared food growing cold on his plate, the beautifully crafted table furnishings. The room itself was such a relief after the bland uniformity of District 13. His remorseful murmur was barely audible, "It can be horrible."

Milo spoke earnestly, "You know more of the history of Panem than most. You know that the Dark Days were brought on by District 13, and such darkness as continues in Panem today can all be laid at their door. It's obvious that they have manipulated you and, through no choice of your own, you've ended up in the middle. I admit it: I feel sorry for you. Seriously, can you say you've found a home there? Have they embraced you? How many of them can you really count as friends? Surely you must miss your true friends, your life in the Capitol. Personally, I don't think I could survive in 13. It's truly remarkable that you do. A credit to your fortitude."

He paused in his eating to look directly at Remus who was sitting staring. despondently at his food. Taking a long sip of wine, he continued:

"When the decision was made to purge this district of its criminal elements, I realized the potential for a spin-off benefit. Of course we knew of the involvement here of District 13, and your part in it, but I simply could not accept that the Remus Thread I knew had his heart in such a black endeavor. Your participation smacked more of a man angry, unhappy and lost, than of a willing collaborator. I felt that, given the chance, you would prefer that all these things had never happened, that your life had not been torn so far off course, and I saw the opportunity for a rescue of sorts.

"If we could get you to this district and away from 13's pernicious influence, then you would be in a position to choose how you truly want your life to proceed.

"Well here you are.

"I can tell you right now that with just a touch of contrition (and really, Remus, you aren't entirely without fault), you would be welcomed back in the Capitol tomorrow. I have heard President Snow himself say it. And think of the joy of your family.

"There's a position available that has your name written all over it... a junior aide to a deputy assistant undersecretary. I have been authorized to offer it to you in recognition of your tribulations. What more could the Capitol do by way of... well... apology? It's yours for the taking. That would be quite a step forward, and you could be there tomorrow.

"The thing is: you could do so much more, and so simply. You could so easily prove where your true loyalties lie, while simultaneously demonstrating regret for some undeniably ill-conceived past acts. Not only could you restore your former life, but you could earn the respect and admiration of a grateful nation in the process. I wonder if you realize how blind fate has put you in a position to aid your country in resolving the District 13 dilemma?"

"You want me to turn over 13's networks." said Remus.

"Nothing of the sort." said Milo, "I sincerely doubt there is much you can tell us that we don't already know.

"Haven't you ever wondered at how easily you manage to get on your hands on some very complex bits of technology? We are very aware of District 13 and the conditions in it. It would be disastrous for the Capitol, as well as that district, if they lost control of their nukes, had a core meltdown, or worse."

"I sincerely doubt that you are aware of how much 13 knows." rejoined Remus sulkily.

Milo looked at him with a baleful expression. "It's of no matter.

"What we have to deal with is the here-and-now, the you-and-me. What the Capitol ultimately wants is to bring District 13 back into the fold, to re-unite them with the rest of Panem. Given the conditions in 13, the benefits to that district must be obvious. We feel certain that a majority of its people would welcome a reunification, but there is a hard-line group of zealots that stands in the way. What you can so easily give us is so much bigger than the names of a handful of petty thieves in the districts. Thanks to the position you have attained in 13, you have access to the highest authorities. We need someone in such a position to help resolve the District 13 issue once and for all."

Remus turned Baleful eyes to Milo. "How?"

"Well now, here I'm going to have to trust your discretion. Can I trust your discretion?"

Remus said nothing. His gaze shifted back to the food before him.

"We want to discompose their high command. Open the door, as it were, to that reunification."

 _'Of course you do._ ' thought Remus, but all he said was, "How?"

"All in good time."

Remus lifted his head to again look Milo in the face. "If I say no?"

Milo sat back in his chair. "As I've said, you can be welcomed back in the Capitol tomorrow, I'll even arrange the transportation, but you know human nature: there will always be those who wonder why you didn't go that extra distance, who will doubt the extent of your reformation, of your loyalty.

"Or do you just want to go back to 13 and live out your life in a cave?"

Remus was feeling disoriented, overwhelmed. He needed time to think. To stall the conversation he asked, "What about Bundy?"

"I doubt there was anything Mr. Bundy could have said that would have been of any help to us, or to you."

"You mean he's..."

"You did ask for the noise to stop, did you not?"

"You know," said Milo, now looking Remus full in the face, "I wonder if I may have misjudged you. Perhaps you are happy in 13. Perhaps that is where your loyalty lies. That would be disappointing. Here I've been treating you as a friend, a long lost comrade, a compatriot. Here I've been talking to you about the Capitol, careers, family, even happiness, but perhaps you are as devoted to 13 as was Mr. Bundy. That would change the picture considerably. Now I'm confused."

There was a long pause as Milo stared down at the table. He said quietly, almost to himself, "I suppose we could take that route." His voice was heavy with disappointment, and he shook his head in slow regret. "It would be distressing... a Capitol citizen and all... imprisoned for treason, examined by the Capitol inquisitors." When he looked back at Remus, it was with a face full of deep concern. "Was I wrong? Have I misjudged you?"

"I'm no traitor!" exclaimed Remus, truly startled. The notion had never occurred to him. It was true that he had felt unappreciated, mistreated, even betrayed by his former superiors, all the way up to President Snow. It was true that he liked the thought of striking back. Wouldn't that be considered natural... normal? 13 had told him that Snow had tried to kill him... so maybe he did have an argument with Snow, but not with all of Panem. Panem was his home, his family, his friends, a life he missed dearly. Deep down, how angry was he, even with Snow? The whole tried-to-kill him thing had always seemed so improbable. Deep down, didn't he really wish that none of this had even happened? His participation in 13 was more along the lines of switching from one firm to a poorer, rival company.

There was no denying that he knew people in 13 who had dedicated themselves to the destruction of the Capitol, but it was a passion he had never embraced. He had always found their protestations tiresome; the squabbling of petty provincials.

His new employers appreciated him, and naturally he wanted to demonstrate his worth, to help them advance, but for all that he did, they had never embraced him either. And why? Was it because he was not a traitor to Panem, had never been, could never be... and they knew it? How did serving 13 necessitate being treasonous to Panem?

He squirmed on his chair and stared at the plate in front of him, considering his options. They were few. Whatever happened, he would not be returning to 13 as before. He could not escape his current situation. As things stood, his death could be as casually accomplished and as inconsequential as Bundy's. Even if he did somehow miraculously escape, it would be a simple thing for rumors to start circulating of collusion with the Capitol and complicity in Bundy's disappearance. His 'friends' in 13 would be quick enough to believe them. What other explanation could there be for an escape from Capitol captivity? Hard to believe that life in 13 could be more dismal than usual, but he knew that it was possible. They even had a prison, a dungeon of sorts. But at the present time who would know he had been taken captive? With the riot and its aftermath, his absence would simply be a hanging question.

Remus thought about District 13. It was dying anyway. He knew it. Who could know it better? He realized now that he had known it from the beginning. The aging infrastructure, the lack of resources, the people regimented into robotic servitude. Whole sectors of the district had been shut down, sealed off, made redundant by the decline in population. They had been stripped of their utilities, of the vital and coveted parts necessary to keep the remaining sectors functional. Some of the deepest areas were flooded. Remus had been in those darkened corridors, seen the collapsed floors, their jagged edges hanging over still, black water.

An offer was on the table to return to the Capitol, restored to his former status and with an even better position. Return to the Capitol! Just the thought made him realize how miserable the last few years had been. Worthless, if whispers of disloyalty would follow behind his back.

His silence extended.

Could the offer be trusted? A short return to 13 with the certain knowledge that the District's days were numbered? With himself as an agent of its reintegration into Panem? And the Capitol's gratitude for his part in that?

He looked across the table to Milo and saw a face filled with sympathy and compassion.

"Remus," Milo said, his voice a quiet plea, "come home."

Remus sat in his chair, bowed his head. His hands lay loose, palms upwards in his lap, fingers slightly curled. For one final moment he hesitated, then looked at Milo, firmed his voice and replied, "What do you want me to do?"

"I am relieved," said Milo, breaking into a smile, "and it's so very simple, but I think we've talked enough business for now. Why don't we finish this delightful meal, spend a relaxing evening, and then we'll be refreshed and ready for a new day in the morning."

The rest of the evening passed with Milo prattling on about life in the Capitol, its pleasures, its scandals, all the things that had happened in Remus' long absence. Remus sat silent, largely lost in his own thoughts. They retired late, and Remus was led to the most comfortable bed in the most luxurious room he had seen in years. But the room had no windows and, as the door closed behind him, he heard the click of a lock.

* * *

With Remus duly bedded down and secured, Milo sat in comfort, sipping his glass of wine. So far, things seemed to be going well. He smiled ruefully, impressed by the depth of President Snow's perception. It was as if the President could see into the future, anticipating every move by the enemy, and preparing the perfect weapons to counter them. Milo knew himself to be such a weapon, and relished the part he had to play.

"Be true to your training." President Snow had said, and if Milo had a motto, that was it. He was diligent in trying to live up to Snow's standards, to meet his expectations, and here, in this room, sipping this wine, he could see the pieces beginning to coming together. Snow, in encouraging in Milo the skills necessary to implement his will,was unlocking a door that would see Panem into the dawn of a new age. Amusing to think that someone like Remus Thread might prove to be the key.

* * *

In the morning, Remus had to admit that he felt better than he had in a great long time. Overnight, his stay in District 13 had changed from a ceaseless trial to a great adventure... with himself as the hero and a pot of gold at the end. He sat patiently and waited for a guard to take him to Milo.

Milo was sitting in a sun drenched room, a sumptuous breakfast laid out on the table before him. He rose with a smile. He took Remus' hand, enfolding it in both of his. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

Remus smiled in return and was about to respond when he glanced out the window at Milo's back. The view sobered him. In the distance, between buildings, he caught a glimpse of the square. Dark smoke was rising and he thought he saw flame blackened ruins.

Milo caught the glance and moved to intercept Remus' attention. As he guided him to the table and sat him before the waiting meal he said, "You know, I don't understand district people, the district frame of mind." He moved to take the seat opposite. "Look at that foofaraw from yesterday. Who did it hurt? The very people responsible for it. And why? What did they hope this violence would accomplish? Instant gratification: it's a curse. So often I hear district people whining about how badly off they are. Do they think they can burn and loot their way to a better life?" Now he was serving scrambled eggs with thick slices of ham, pouring orange juice and coffee. "Come on! You get a better life through hard work, through application and dedication. You get a better life by building things up, not burning them down. Life is hard! It's hard for everyone. It's hard for you. It's hard for me. We adapt. We make it work, but there are those who never will. These are the troublemakers." He was spreading raspberry jam on a piece of toast, but stopped to wave his bread knife in Remus' direction. "Thankfully there aren't that many of them, but there are enough. You can see the damage they do. They see the world as unfair, even as repressive. They think the world owes them a living; that they are entitled to lives of comfort and ease. You know better." He took a bite out of the toast and followed it with a swallow of coffee. He sat back in his chair, watching as Remus helped himself to a second serving of eggs. "They should suck it up, open their eyes, work harder and more diligently to make life better for themselves and everyone else. But they're lazy, so what do they do? They sponge off the work of others, and if that's not enough, they whine, they steal, they agitate." He leaned forward in his chair, demanding Remus' full attention. Remus stopped mid-chew, knife in one hand and fork in the other, waiting. "And then District 13 finds them, and encourages them, and manipulates them to its own foul purpose. They become its dupes. This is what we need to overcome... for the good of all of Panem. And you, my friend, so brilliantly situated in the heart of the matter, are destined to be the star of this production." Remus grinned, and helped himself to more ham.

The two sat companionably enjoying the breakfast and the conversation moved on to an easy banter about life in the Capitol.

Remus had lost three years of rumor and gossip. He was eager to get up to date, but the conversation bored Milo. He allowed it to continue briefly, but felt a building impatience. The Capitol wasn't his focus, and Remus had no information to offer that wasn't old news. Rumor and gossip were the bread and butter of Milo's trade, but three years past might as well have been a lifetime. He was anxious to bring the conversation into the present and steered it in that direction.

They were each on their second cup of coffee, the table littered with empty plates, when Milo said, "Standard procedures. They're so ordinary no one gives them a second thought, but they can tell you a lot about people, their status and expectations. For instance, when President Snow gets up in the morning, I'll bet a valet has laid out his clothes and by the time he's cleaned and dressed, his breakfast will be waiting, timed to the minute. Me? When I'm in the Capitol, it's always a big rush because I have to do everything myself."

"In 13," replied Remus distractedly, "there's a machine that prints your schedule on your arm. All day long it's deadline after deadline after deadline. Everyone is required to participate in the most mundane and demeaning tasks... washing dishes, cleaning toilets and the like."

With considerably more animation, he asked. "Do you know Marcus Ryland or Julian Pentworth? There was a scandal in the making!"

"You must enjoy your trips to the districts." said Milo, undeterred by Remus' overture. "They must seem like vacations."

Remus noticed the rebuff and sighed inwardly. He knew he had no choice but to surrender to Milo's lead. They were back to business.

"The travel arrangements are less than prime, and the accommodations leave something to be desired, but it's better than the same drab corridors and, of course, you have to dress in district fashion. I probably have one of the most extravagant wardrobes in the whole of 13."

His response had an air of resignation that Milo could not help but notice.

"I'm curious." Milo said, "What's your routine when you return from a trip like this? Pick up your schedule and get back to the grind?"

"Pretty much." said Remus. "Of course the traveling is exhausting and you never know when you will actually get back. If it's late, you just fall into bed and sleep. If it's early, you're likely to do that anyhow. I generally take an extra day to write a report on the trip and to catch up on events. Then it's back to the grind."

"How do you get in and out of the place?"

"There's a tunnel. The entrance to it is very secure. They'll know it's me, and they'll know if anyone else is around, before I can get in."

"They don't trust you?"

"I don't know if that's the case so far as the tunnel is concerned. Like you say: it's just standard procedure."

"You're not debriefed? You don't sit down with people and answer questions? You're not searched?"

"No." said Remus, "My report is usually adequate. There are sometimes follow-up questions, but I wouldn't exactly call it a debriefing. And why would they search me? There's a pack I carry that holds little more than survival rations. I turn that in when I get back, but other than that, I don't carry more than the clothes on my back. If I did, whatever it was, I'd turn it in. Pretty much everything in 13 is ultimately community property."

"Everything." mused Milo, "Interesting."

"You know what... ?" began Remus, but then hesitated. "No." he said, "You'd just think it silly."

"Oh, tell me. I'm fascinated."

Remus was becoming more involved, and Milo was pleased.

"Well..." said Remus. "I found this old briefcase in the back of a cabinet in my office when I first moved in, and I like to carry it to meetings and things. It gives me a sense of normalcy, but it doesn't get anything other than smirks from everyone else."

Milo leaned forward in his chair. "They don't use briefcases? My, my. I understand your feeling. I'd be lost without mine."

"No." relied Remus. "Paper's, like, precious. I get dirty looks just for using the stuff. Correspondence and records and such... in 13 it's all electronic. I am indulged when I show up with the briefcase. I swear, no one else will so much as touch it. It's like ignoring my briefcase is some kind of loyalty oath to the district. I get rolled eyes whenever I carry it."

Milo stared at him until Remus started to feel uncomfortable, then he leaned back again, smiling. "Excellent." he said. "Now we have our plan."

Remus sat up and looked at him.

"What do you know about plastic explosives?" Milo asked.

Remus just shrugged.

"This is so simple it's stupid." said Milo. "We're going to mold plastic explosives to fit your body. You'll be able to carry a couple of kilos without anyone being the wiser. You're sure you've never been searched?"

Remus shook his head, but couldn't help looking alarmed. "I'm not going to be some human bomb!" he protested indignantly.

A look of rage flashed into Milo's face and he leaned forward to speak. His hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists, his lips pressed together into a thin line. He was furious, furious at this little man cowering across the table from him. He wanted to bellow at him, snarl, roar. Milo was in charge here, and Milo was neither to be questioned nor doubted. He had laid down a cloth of gold before this wretched little rabbit, this creature from District 13, and now the quivering cretin dared to challenge him?

The transformation frightened Remus, but then Milo leaned back again and turned his face upwards. _Be true to your training. Let your strongest weapon be persuasion._ This was important. At this point Remus was crucial to the plan, and bellowing would be disastrous. He needed cooperation, a willing accomplice. Scared and coerced was useless. _Let your strongest weapon be persuasion._ As he stared at the ceiling, his face softened and his fists unclenched. He had a temper and he knew it... especially when the issue was District 13. Knowing it, and controlling it, had saved him more than once. His was a job that required subtlety and finesse. He curtailed his temper, contained it, calmed himself. When his eyes came back down, he was smiling.

"Of course not." said Milo dismissively. "That's just to get them into the district. They're perfectly safe to carry. Can you hide them once you're in? You don't think their sensors will look for explosives?"

Remus, still shaken, said, "I doubt it. I'm not aware of any sensor scans. Only people known to 13 can get into the tunnel. If a stranger did manage to breach the entrance, they'd be expected to be armed to the teeth anyhow. No need for things as subtle as scans."

"That's the biggest risk." said Milo with an air of unconcerned ease. "And you can hide them once they're in?"

"I suppose." said Remus. He thought for a moment, anxious to demonstrate his cooperativeness. "I guess I could put them in my briefcase."

"That's a thought," nodded Milo. His friendly air was fully restored. "Can you be so certain no one will get curious, no one will sneak a peek at the briefcase. By your own account, it draws attention."

"I can hide them." said Remus compliantly, "I'll find a way."

"The specifics of delivering the explosives will have to be up to you. Can you manage it?"

."Deliver them where?"

"I should think that would be obvious. You're going to take out their high command."

Remus stared back at him, uncomprehending. Milo had grabbed another piece of toast and was spreading it with cream cheese.

Take out? Take out? What did that mean?

Milo busied himself about the breakfast table, giving time for his statement to sink in.

As the knowledge slowly dawned, Remus paled. Take out. Kill. Assassinate. Murder. _'Are you nuts?'_ He wanted to shout it , bombs, death and destruction... it was all out of his league. He had never even daydreamed such things. He bit his tongue and choked back a wave of panic. _'Yes,'_ he thought, _'yes, of course.'_ All that talk about zealots and hard-liners, what else could it have been leading up to? But making this work meant a return to the Capitol in glory. But such an act! Refusing... Milo had said he could go back to the Capitol without doing anything, but suddenly Remus was very much afraid, suddenly felt that refusal surely meant death. What choice did he really heave? He swallowed heavily. Remus Thread: warrior. Wouldn't Romulus be surprised!

"I'll find a way."

"Good." said Milo with finality. "Today I'll set things up on this end. Tomorrow we'll get you packed and sent on your way."

He leaned back, smiling. "What we're setting in motion here will be of incalculable benefit to Panem. I do truly love this country, and it pleases me so that you do as well. It is a magnificent land and will become even more so with President Snow at the helm."

Remus nodded.

Milo could see that Remus had been shaken. He knew that what he was asking was entirely out of character. He needed to divert Remus' attention, to get it away from the task at hand and back to the offered carrot.

"Have you thought at all of what it will be like to return to the Capitol? Any plans?" he asked cheerfully.

Remus smiled wanly.

"Well, think about that. I'll be away most of today, preparing your return. I'll tell you: there was a lot of buzz at just the thought. Imagine the excitement when people know you're coming home. There'll be some pretty extravagant plans in the works, you bet, and some very happy people!"

It did give Remus something to mull over during the long day. Milo disappeared soon after to "set things up". Before going, he advised Remus to stay indoors so as to avoid the chance, however unlikely, of being "abducted" by remaining District 13 agents. Remus soon found he had little choice in the matter. His movements were confined to a small suite of rooms, most without windows. There was one corridor open to him, but most of the doors that opened off it were locked. Remembering Bundy's recent interrogation (was it really only yesterday?) he wasn't very curious to know what was behind them. An elevator at one end of the corridor did not respond when the call button was pushed. Stairs at the other end, seen through a panel of wire glass, were behind yet another locked door.

In the breakfast room, the window had been curtained over and there were always Peacekeepers on coffee break. They were the only people Remus saw, but when he spoke to them their replies were phrased respectfully, but came across as both terse and hostile. Despite seeing no one else, Remus had the feeling that he was at the heart of a Peacekeeper hive. Not disturbing the creatures seemed the best course of action. He had little to do other than wander through the three or four open rooms, leaf through some glossy Capitol magazines, and snooze.

He did think about what Milo had asked, what his return to the Capitol would be like. Thinking about his more imminent return to 13, and the mission he had agreed to undertake, was terrifying. Just as he did not feel a traitor to the Capitol, neither did he feel any hatred towards District 13; nothing that would excuse such a vicious act. He wanted to get out, yes. He wanted the slate wiped clean on his return to the Capitol. But how could he steel himself to such a thing as this? Remus did all he could to keep those thoughts at bay. His solitude did little to help, nor did the glossy magazines.

The reappearance of Milo for dinner was the highlight of his day. The meal was extravagant and prepared to perfection, and Milo was in a good and talkative mood. He was skilled at filling empty space with idle chatter, and Remus' spirits lifted in his presence.

Lounging after dinner, Remus commented, "You know, I've been thinking about the Capitol and what you asked this morning, and you know what came to mind? Bantam's Ice Cream Palace."

Milo laughed. "Bantam's: The President has his mansion, but Bantam has a Palace!"

"It's true." said Remus earnestly. "Our parents used to take us there as kids, me and Romulus. The ice cream was spectacular, any flavor you could conceive. And the place itself: the arches and domes and columns, all that marble and gold, the ceaseless ornamentation, that endless serving counter, all that oak and polished brass. The light show is dazzling. And the music! And the people! That place attracts the strangest creatures in the Capitol. Endless fascination. It's like a microcosm of what the Capitol has to offer. It's almost like a zoo, a carnival, like getting a glimpse of the wild side. I used to go there once in a while even as an adult. Their selection of coffees is as diverse and fantastic as their ice cream. If you want to get into a Capitol frame of mind, what better place than Bantam's?"

Milo was nodding along and smiling. "It's been a long time since I was there. My mother used to take me there after a long day of shopping."

"You know," continued Milo, "One of my earliest memories, so vivid in my mind, concerns both Bantam's and the President.

"I remember it was a beautiful spring day, brisk but calm, the sun bright in the sky. I was maybe eight years old, and going shopping with my mother. I'll tell you she had a firm grip on my hand and we were flying down the boulevard. I had to practically run to keep up. She was taking me to buy new clothes, an ordeal I confess I never enjoyed. My co-operation had been bribed with a promise of a trip to Bantam's. She was tsk, tsking away, going on about how fast I was growing. I might not have liked the new clothes bit, but I did like the idea of growing up, and the idea of an ice cream treat.

"As we walked along the sidewalk, six Peacekeepers rounded the corner ahead, two abreast, riding monstrous, thundering motorcycles. You could feel that thunder right down into your core. The cycles had chromed chassis and sparked off shards of dazzling sunlight. They had those large plaques attached to the handle bars (have you seen them?) enameled in rippling blue, and silver set with the Great Seal of Panem. It was Presidential Guard, though I didn't know it at the time. They moved so stately down the boulevard.

"I stopped in my tracks. My mother came lurching to a halt, almost pulled me off my feet. At first, she was annoyed. I didn't care. I just stood there, my mouth a great big "O", staring so hard I'm surprised my eyes didn't pop right out of my head. I was instantly enthralled.

"The Peacekeepers wore shining chromed helmets topped by rigid fans of gilded metal. Extravagant plumes of white feathers fluttered at their shoulders. Their uniforms blazed white in the sun and dripped gold braid. Smaller versions of those blue plaques hung by gold chains around their necks. They wore long, white, fur collared, gold trimmed cloaks, the breeze of their passage revealing flashes of scarlet linings. Their gloves were impossibly white and flashed iridescent when their hands shifted, and their boots were crushed gold with scarlet fur trimming the tops.

"Behind them came the longest car I had ever seen. It was sleek, low to the ground, and appeared to be floating on air. The car's surface was immaculate and shimmered with every color of the rainbow. It's windows were mirrors of gold. Pennants emblazoned with the Great Seal fluttered above the forward fenders, and the Seal appeared again, silver and gold on a gold-bordered purple shield, large on the passenger doors.

"Six more Peacekeepers followed, as resplendent as the first.

"My mother pulled me back from the curb, back against the plate glass window of a store selling lady's wear. I remember that... lady's wear. Now she was standing watching the procession and her air was one of deference and respect. 'It's the President!' she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice.

"Pedestrian traffic had come to a halt as the motorcade simply oiled it's way down the boulevard. Vehicles inched up onto the sidewalks to clear passage."

He paused, smiling at the memory, a smile that seemed to Remus to have a touch of regret.

' _Nostal_ _gia'_ , thought Remus, _'_ _So difficult to avoid this_ _yearning for_ _more innocent_ _times.'_

Milo turned bright eyes to him. "We never did get to Bantam's. What a sight! It was glorious. Certainly a thing a boy would never forget. And where else in this whole world could you expect to see anything so magnificent, so regal. Just another day in the Capitol. How could anyone not love this nation?"

He paused a moment, slowly shaking his head, then slapped his knees. "Well..." he continued, "big day tomorrow. We're all set on this end, but you'll need to be up bright and early, so we better call it an evening!"

Within moments, Peacekeepers appeared to escort Remus back to his room.

After a day of idleness, sleep did not come easily. Remus tossed and turned before drifting into strange and uncomfortable dreams. When Peacekeepers roused him the next morning, he felt exhausted and had the shadow of a headache. He remembered scenes of a forest floor, and him lying bloody, torn, broken, and dying. His body ached as he got out of bed.

* * *

How he had survived the hovercraft crash, Remus never knew. The craft was destroyed, its crew killed. He found himself on a forest floor in excruciating pain. He could not move, but dimly saw an arm twisted at an impossible angle. It was hard to focus and he drifted in and out of consciousness. The smallest breath was an agony and the smell and taste of blood constant. And then the strangest thing happened: blurred and unfocused, a face entered his field of vision. He thought he heard a voice but could not understand the words. Then he lost consciousness.

He woke to screaming pain, lying on his back in a rude shelter. He seemed to be on a bed of leaves. His head hurt so badly that he did not dare to move it. An attempt to raise his arm brought on waves of pain and nausea. Again he heard the strange voices, felt hands restrain his shoulders, and again lost consciousness.

He was painfully prodded into wakefulness. A hag was leaning over him, unkempt and filthy. "Who are you?" she demanded. Her face was close to his, her breath putrid. The accent was so thick, Remus could hardly understand the words. His job had taken him to every district. He knew every accent Panem had to offer, but he had never before heard this.

"Remus Thread." he gasped out, "A Capitol citizen and government representative. I am in need of medical attention and demand that you contact the authorities."

"You demand nothing." sneered the voice, "I am the authority here." The woman turned to someone unseen in the darkness and uttered an unintelligible command.

Day after day Remus lay in the shelter. Pain and fever racked his body. Sometimes he was aware of his surroundings: firelight, the smell of burning wood and human filth, being spoon fed vile liquids and bits of rancid meat. Other days were lost in an opaque grayness. He woke once and felt his body being lifted, waves of fresh stabbing pain. What followed seemed to be days of constant jostling, constant motion relieved only by nights of ravenous mosquitoes and flies, until a day came when he heard a voice he could almost identify. The accent was vaguely like District 12, but not the same. "He's more dead than alive." said the voice.

"He's alive enough." said the fireside voice. "Pay me."

Weeks of recovery followed in a Spartan, but functional, hospital. His broken ribs were attended to, his arm set in a proper cast. His shattered leg was reconstructed as well as his broken hip, the incipient gangrene was halted. Internal injuries required several operations. His concussion slowly receded.

The day came when, at last, he received a non-medical visitor. It was a short visit: information gathering: name, date of birth, family affiliations, education and employment history, statistical data. Remus managed only one question: "Where am I?"

"District 13." came the curt reply.

District 13. The place that didn't exist. There were rumors, of course, but few people actually believed them. Those that did were generally written off as conspiracy nuts. Was it possible?

Several days later, the interrogator returned. "We've manged to match a sample of your DNA," he said, "and it confirms your identity."

"Matched it with what?" Remus asked.

The man answered. "Just be glad we're satisfied."

"And I'm in District 13."

"Yes."

"Which doesn't exist."

"Evidently you've been misinformed."

"How did I get here?"

"We purchased you from the Nomes. Usually, they just kill whoever they come across, but they know that we occasionally show an interest in captives. You really are lucky you survived, considering the mess you were in. You were dying. All they had to do was leave you alone. Scavenging the wreck of the hovercraft was their main concern. They decided to try and keep you alive because you were a civilian, and on an aircraft they say was deliberately shot from the sky. That's been confirmed, by the way. Snow ordered your death."

"President Snow ordered my death? Why?"

"Does he need a reason? Maybe he was just in a mood. Rumor is: you rocked the boat, and he decided it was time to land hard on someone, set an example, demonstrate the cost of dissent. Why he would choose such a minor functionary as you and such a minor family as yours, is doomed to remain a mystery. Your parents have been exiled to their District estates, your brother has been demoted. He's working very diligently to ingratiate himself to his superiors. He has quite the reputation."

"And I ended up here." It was all so unbelievable. "Who are Nomes?"

"We don't really know. They're people not associated with any District. They live in the wilderness, tribal structures, clans. Matriarchal, at least the ones around here: real Amazons. The Capitol exterminates them when they find them, and the Nomes will raid Capitol groups that venture into the wild. They've been out there a long time and have their own language, but it's based at least in part on ours."

 _'Unbelievable_ ,' thought Remus. "So what happens now?"

"That's up to you. You can wander off into the wilderness if you like. It's a hard life but the Nomes manage it. I wouldn't favor your chances, being from the Capitol and all. We can infiltrate you into District 12, but what good would that do you? Strangers don't just mysteriously appear in districts, do they? And besides, I expect Snow prefers his dead nuisances to remain dead. You can stay here, be subject to our rules and regulations, and find a place among us. That's our offer. We've put a lot of effort and resources into bringing you back from the dead. You might want to take that into account."

"I need time to sort this out. It's a lot for one go." said Remus

"You have one day." said the man, who then turned and left.

* * *

Lies. Had it all been lies? Milo said yes.

Milo said he had been duped and manipulated. "As criminal an enterprise as exists in our world." he had called them. Years Remus had been in District 13 and they still didn't trust him. Years of sideways glances and laughing behind his back. He could see it now. They had been manipulating him. And Remus, unwitting, had been duped into helping their insidious schemes. It was appalling. Criminal. "As criminal an enterprise as exists in our world." He owed 13 nothing. They had used and abused him. He had committed a terrible blunder and yet, here and now, the Capitol, the glorious Capitol in its infinite compassion, was giving him the opportunity to atone, to redeem himself. Milo steeled himself to what lay ahead. This was right. This was necessary. This was deserved. And besides: he would be far away when the bomb went off, if it ever did. Probably wouldn't even hear it. The whole thing might just be some scare tactic. Not a real bomb at all. All Milo was really asking him to do was to leave his briefcase behind him when he left.

 **5**

He was ready when Peacekeeper technicians came to take him in hand, leading him to a room of Spartan utility. There, they showed him a doughy, off-white material.

"These are the plastics," a technician told him, picking up a piece and kneading it like putty, handing it to him to do the same. They showed him a piece that had a small white disc embedded in it. "This is the detonator. You set it with voice commands. Look at it and speak your name."

Remus looked at the disc and said, "Remus Thread." The disc flashed a momentary red.

"Good." said the technician. "When you get to your destination, look at the disc, speak your name and say 'Set time'. When the disc flashes, give the local time, military style. So 8:45 PM would be...?"

"20:45." responded Remus. "It's the only time they use in 13."

The technician gave him a startled look. "We don't need to know your destination." he said quietly.

"Oh. Right." said Remus, blushing.

"When the time comes," continued the technician, "Speak your name and say 'Set charge', then give the time you want the explosives to detonate. Understood?"

Remus nodded.

The technician showed him a lump of darker brown plastic with a black disc protruding from the surface. "This may be used at your discretion. It has a two-part detonator."

He pulled a similar detonator from his pocket, this black disc attached to a white one. And handed it to Remus.

"Remove the black disc, go over to that corner," said the technician indicating a far corner of the room, "and drop the white disc. Then take the black disc to the opposite corner, speak your name, set it down and get back here fast.

Remus did as told. When he spoke his name to the black disc, it started to blink red. He dropped it in the corner and scurried back to the table. The black disc stopped blinking.

"This is a proximity detonator." said the technician. The white disc remains embedded in the plastic, the black disc can be removed up to 15 meters distant. Do you understand?"

Remus nodded.

"It is activated when you separate the discs. When you speak your name to the black disc, it will start flashing as you saw. That means you have 5 seconds to get clear. When the flashing stops, the detonator is armed. Anything gets near it..."

He tossed a balled up piece of paper in the direction of the black disc, and the white disc in the opposite corner exploded.

Remus jumped, rattled.

"Don't make a mistake." said the technician.

"This stuff in infinitely flexible." he continued, "but it forms more easily when it's warm."

He started working the plastic into sheets and taping pieces to various parts of Remus' body.

"When you reach your destination," he said, "you can ball all these pieces back into a single lump. Remember to keep the detonator on the surface where you can see it, and bear in mind that this tape will carry traces of your DNA, if that's a consideration."

When all had been secured and he was ready to go, Milo appeared.

"Walk with me." he said. The two proceeded along a corridor to elevators that took them down to the underground parking facility.

"This way." said Milo, leading him through the lot. "Your guide is unaware of your mission. Keep it that way."

"Guide?" asked Remus.

They were approaching a nondescript, green-painted metal door. Milo placed a hand on Remus' arm and drew him to a stop. Remus looked at him inquiringly.

"District 13 still has agents here." Milo said. "They are aware of your presence. The riot and subsequent lock down may account for your temporary disappearance, but you were smuggled in and you must be smuggled out just as covertly or suspicions will be aroused."

He paused dramatically and looked Remus in the eye, his expression solemn. "Your code name is Titan."

Remus' eyes grew wide and his mouth slackened. 'W _ow,'_ he thought, ' _a code name!'_ It drove home the grave importance of his terrifying task, the number of people depending on him. All of Panem was watching. All of Panem was behind him. He was the linchpin, and the success of this vital mission rested on him alone. He squared his shoulders. He knew he could do it. Knew it! He knew it was right and necessary, felt humbled by Milo's faith, privileged to be called upon, and determined to succeed. He nodded in grim acknowledgement. "I'm ready."

They moved on towards the green door.

"What will I tell 13 of my trip here?"

"Sadly, it was an utter failure. Thanks to the riot and the subsequent crackdown, not only is Mr. Bundy unaccounted for, but Argus Oglethorpe is under arrest, his whereabouts unknown and his networks inoperative. You were lucky to get out alive. Fortunately, Bundy introduced you to an operative who escaped the net and saw you to safety. You'll have your hands full trying to rebuild a network here. No doubt it will require subsequent visits. Count on that last bit. We will need to meet again, if only to coordinate times."

He paused a moment in thought. "Aim to be here for Reaping Day and, in the meantime, think about the most effective way to deliver the explosives." He gave Remus a wink, and the two proceeded to the green door.

"Your networks in the other districts will be unaffected." said Milo. "We want things to appear as normal as possible... in these troubled times."

The door opened onto a concrete stairwell illuminated by a single bare light bulb enclosed in a wire cage. Hastily rising from where he sat on the steps, they were greeted by Clement, the man who had brought Remus and Bundy into the district. He looked even more miserable and downtrodden than before.

"Mr. Clement has been of great assistance to us." said Milo. "He was instrumental in getting you here in the first place."

"What about my boy?" asked Clement. His question was ignored.

"He will see you out again.

"Clement already knows that the district is under lock down, don't you?" asked Milo, looking at the man contemptuously. Not waiting for a reply he continued, "The Peacekeeper patrols are unaware of your presence, so there is real risk in this operation. Unfortunately that is necessary to preserve your cover. Best of luck." He shook Remus' hand, snapped to attention and fired him a crisp salute, then turning, vanished back into the parking lot.

Remus was staring where Milo had been. Behind him Clement was speaking. "My boy," he said. "he was helping with the network but got caught. The Peacekeepers have him. They tell me he's alive, but won't be for long if I don't cooperate. What can I do?"

Remus turned to face him. ' _Do they never stop whining'_ , he wondered. "How do we get out of here?" he asked.

Up a couple flights of stairs, a door opened onto a shadowed alcove. It was raining heavily, and gusts of wind carried the acrid stench of recent fire. Soon drenched to the skin, they scurried furtively down deserted streets. Twice they narrowly avoided patrols. Once they managed by ducking into a nearby doorway; the second time they hid behind a pile of rubble... all that was left of a building on the central square. Eventually, they reached the safe house where Remus and Bundy had hidden before entering the square that fateful night.

"I'll have to take you to the train." said Clement. "I don't like it, but there's no other way. With the district on lock down, there's no point in it stopping here. I'll have to take you to an alternate boarding point. First, we'll go to where your packs are hidden. Take yours, leave Bundy's. We can always hope he'll show up later."

Remus gave Clement a look.

"It's a night train, so we should be fine after we get past the lights." continued Clement, oblivious to the look. "All this was arranged before you even got here, but Bundy was supposed to take the lead, and the lock down was unexpected. At least you're lucky that no other stops are scheduled before your jump off point. You do know your jump off point?"

Remus nodded.

"Well, be on your toes because it will be easy to miss, and there won't be anything anyone can do. Now, rest up, eat. We'll leave in a couple hours."

The trip back to 13 was harrowing. In the dead of night, with rain still drizzling down, the ground slick and the train moving at a good clip, he was barely able to clamber aboard. In damp clothes he crouched in a corner of what surely must have been a cattle car, gagging on the stench and chilled by incessant drafts. Sure enough, after almost a full day of cramping discomfort, inactivity, and stifling boredom, he almost missed the jump off point. He was amazed to survive a leap from the rapidly accelerating boxcar. The weather outside 13 had turned unseasonably warm and noticeably humid. Remus was greeted by the season's first generation of mosquitoes. It was a real relief when he closed the tunnel hatch against them.

* * *

The announcement of the 3rd Quarter Quell, did not come as a surprise to 13's commanders, though it was cause for considerable discussion in the general populace. The Capitol's phrasing of the announcement raised a few eyebrows. Were these Games to be the start of a systematic re-assertion of Capitol power? Would District 13 be included in that?

The real concerns of 13's military over the increased activity at Base 43 had not been disclosed, but alarming rumors, based mostly on the Quell announcement, started circulating and needed to be quashed. The district was pervaded by a sense of unease.

Remus' report of the situation in District 6 did not help. The disappearance of Felix Bundy resulted in a general inquiry, and Remus found himself under real scrutiny. For once, he was grilled on his activities outside the district. His account of the riot and the Peacekeeper actions that followed held up under examination. Bundy and he had become separated in the city square and he had never seen Bundy again. That was all that he could tell them. Clement had come to his aid and secreted him in safe houses during the initial Peacekeeper sweeps. He had been moved frequently, and under perilous circumstances. That turned out to be good for both he and Clement as the rumors Clement heard were that Argus had been taken prisoner and the supply network rolled up. Of course, rebuilding would start as soon as possible, but there was little chance of accomplishing anything immediately in the face of the Peacekeeper repression. The account of his escape from District 6 and return to 13 was consistent with past reports from various runners. Leaving Bundy's pack in anticipation of his reappearance was a convincing detail. The matter was laid to rest.

* * *

Johnson arrived back at Base 43 a week after the announcement of the Quarter Quell. He had traveled by hovercraft, first to the Capitol, where he had met with President Snow to update him on the status of the Mockingjay, and of the District 13 initiative, and to receive new orders. Snow was pleased with the progress Johnson had made. Johnson was brought up to date with the most recent reports from the districts. They were disquieting. Unrest, civil disobedience were on the rise. In some districts, Capitol control was bring pushed to its limits, but the plan to restore order was very nearly complete. The time had come to bring its various elements to a full state of readiness. Johnson left the Capitol impatient for the impending crackdown. Back at Base 43, he and Commander Corel were soon in conference.

"These Games are going to be short, and to the point." said Johnson. "The Capitol told everyone what is going to happen: the Capitol will be the victor in these Games. They'll try to skew it so Everdeen will be the last one standing, but no tribute will leave that arena alive. The duration of the Games will be short, and the final execution will be very public, very forceful.

"There are already..." he paused, chocking off his own statement. Corel received regular status reports from Peacekeeper Command, but they were heavily skewed on a need-to-know basis. Milo saw those reports and knew their limitations. He considered, and decided it was in his best interests to give Corel an unofficial summary of the situation. A bit of sharing, a sense of common purpose, might impress on the Commander the significance of Milo's mission.

"I'm going to tell you some classified information: it's time you knew the seriousness of the situation. You are already aware of disquiet in the Districts, but the situation is worse than you realize, and it seems to be degenerating. There are already significant riots, even incipient uprisings, in four districts. I've just come from 6 where the situation is very bad, but it's a cakewalk compared to elsewhere. The Capitol must, and will, restore calm. These Games will demonstrate the lengths to which we will go to assert law and order, the rule of rational, and just, government. A major, major crackdown on all this criminal activity is on its way.

"The Mockingjay thing is an important part of the current trouble. The popularity of the Everdeen girl was unexpected. Other Games have developed similarly popular tributes, but her mutinous subversion of the clearly stated rules was without precedent. She has become a rallying point for resistance and dissent, and this has been allowed to go on too long.

"District 13 has been instrumental in politicizing this situation. They run covert networks in every district and they are the ones who have elevated Everdeen and her silly token to its current status. The Capitol has decided to deal with the Mockingjay through these Games, and to use the Games as the commencement of the pacification of the districts. In order to achieve this, we need to isolate District 13, to keep it entirely out of the picture until the situation is firmly in hand. And then we will deal with 13 itself."

Corel injected, "As considerable as the build up of this base has been, we're nowhere near strong enough to take on 13. The weaponry with which we have been supplied will be of very limited effectiveness against an enemy whose primary facilities are buried deeply underground."

"District 13 is weak." said Johnson. "They are desperately short of manpower and their infrastructure is barely limping along. They are on the verge of collapse. You are more than strong enough to get their attention. The plan is to hit 13 with a series of bunker missiles. They'll be non-nuclear, but deeply penetrating and very powerful. If you dump your explosives and incendiaries in after them, 13 will have its hands full.

"In addition, sufficient ground forces will be deployed to make 13 keep its head below ground. Your group will be instrumental in deploying those troops, which are currently being built up in District 12. Romulus Thread will be in charge of that action."

Corel sat impassively and listened. It sounded to him like the kind of plan a committee of civilians might concoct, but he was not one to challenge his orders.

"Our training to date has been of a fairly generic nature. The types of formations you're talking about have been included, but not stressed. We'll need to step up our drills and concentrate more on the appropriate formations." he said.

"We haven't wanted to alarm 13," said Milo, "and felt a business-as-usual approach to camp operations was best. But yes, we have reached the stage of final preparation, and what you are suggesting is appropriate. Anything you need to facilitate that, you just let me know."

Johnson sat back in his chair, satisfied. "District 13 is in for some hard times."

' _And about time.'_ he thought.

* * *

The explosion erupted from nowhere. Its sound was deafening and the heavy car actually lifted into the air, carried on a ball of flame. Windows shattered, and pedestrians were slammed into walls, blasted to the ground. The Presidential Guard was knocked off its bikes and scattered. Debris rained down, littering the street and sidewalks with broken stone and glass. The car fell with a resounding crash.

The air was suddenly acrid, full of dust and smoke and screaming sounds. Milo was crouched against the storefront in as tight a ball as he could manage, hands clasped over his head, wailing even louder than the sirens that grew and grew. Where was his mother? He wanted her desperately, needed her, and dared to open his eyes to search. There she was, lying on the sidewalk just feet away. One arm was flung towards him and her eyes were open. Her eyes were open, but it was like she wasn't even seeing him. She wasn't moving. There was so much blood.

"Mommy?" he quavered. And just like that, his life was changed forever.

On a day shortly before his seventeenth birthday Milo, on duty as a runner, was summoned to Snow's office. He was standing at attention and tensed for action as the president shuffled through papers on his desk. It was unusual to be kept waiting like this. Generally, he would simply have been handed an envelope, told where to deliver it, and whether or not a reply was expected. Today was different. The President pushed his papers to one side side and looked directly at him.

"Did you know," asked the President, "that we met before you joined the Corps?"

"No, sir!" said Milo, surprised. He had met the President before joining the Corps? He had absolutely no recollection.

"It was the day your mother died."

It landed on Milo like a bomb. After all these years, the hurt was still there. It ran so deep. He did his best to appear nonplussed, but Snow could read people like few others, and he was pleased.

"I was there." said the President. "Oh yes, I most certainly was.

"Look at this." He passed a piece of paper across his desk.

Milo advanced to pick it up. It was a photograph. In it, President Snow knelt in a street littered with debris. Wisps of smoke obscured parts of the scene. Snow was wrapping a blanket across the shoulders of an obviously distressed and weeping child. Milo recognized himself.

"It was an attempt on my life, but it ended up taking hers."

Milo's eyes snapped to the President's face.

"Who...?" The mere thought of such an outrage was enough to bring his blood to a boil.

His attention turned back to the photo, but his composure had been destroyed. He was stunned. Emotions cascaded through him and he was engulfed with memories, painful and confusing.

He thought all the incidents of that day had been etched indelibly on his mind, but he did not remember this. How could he have forgotten this act of kindness amid the horror of that day. Holding the picture in one hand, the fingers of the other stroked the image. How like President Snow to place the welfare of a lost and terrified boy above his own. Out of his grief came a deep welling of gratitude. He was close to tears.

But what sick mind could possibly have committed such a heinous crime?

"It was an attempt on my life by District 13. They didn't care who else might get hurt."

Milo looked up, puzzled, startled.

"You weren't aware of that, were you?" asked Snow, "That District 13 still exists?"

Milo shook his head.

"It is standard teaching that the district was destroyed after the Dark Days. It seemed in the best interest of the greater state of Panem to shelter the populace from the knowledge of any such ongoing threat... and the district is, after all, a mere shadow of what it was.

"The Treaty of Treason is publicly available to anyone who wants to read it, but there are certain codicils, ancillary agreements and clauses, that remain classified even to this day. Some of these detail the terms for 13's continuance. Unfortunately, 13 violates the conditions constantly. It leaves us in a quandary: do we re-ignite a war some sixty years cold, or do we suffer the consequences of their depredations in silence, all the while doing our best to minimize them? For the greater good we have pursued the latter course, but the consequences can be dire. It was an act of District 13 terror that killed your mother." Snow was gratified to see Milo actually flinch. "This is who they are. This is what they do."

Milo was at a loss on how to react, what (if anything) to say. His emotions were seething. This had been a shock and it would be some time before he could properly regain his bearings. But something new had been added: grief over the death of his mother, gratitude for President Snow, hatred of the newly identified, loathsome and malevolent, District 13. He laid the photo carefully back on Snow's desk and withdrew a pace to stand at attention, lips compressed into a tight line.

Snow slowly looked him over, satisfied.

"I want you to think about District 13." said Snow. "I want you to make it your special study. It's not on the standard list, but I, personally, am granting you the special dispensation and necessary clearances to do so. It is a malignant cancer throughout Panem, and I think you may have a vital role in rooting it out. You will be introduced to the necessary people and have access to the necessary documents and archives."

Since that day, Milo had applied himself to the means of recognizing and containing any hint of District 13 activities. He had striven to identify its agents, track its networks, and study its methods. All that the Capitol knew of that district was at his fingertips, and much of that information had come from his labors. He had dedicated himself to the district's ultimate destruction, and now that goal was within reach.

 **6**

President Coin was surprised when Remus Thread requested a meeting with her a week before Reaping Day. They met in the Command Center and, when he entered, Remus was not surprised to be interrupting a conversation between Coin and Boggs. The two greeted him and looked expectant.

Remus opened the discussion in an unexpected way: "Any news on the Games?" he asked.

Coin gave him a doleful look. "Is that what this meeting is about? We all know what the Capitol has said."

"My apologies." said Remus, his face flushing, "Just making conversation. I guess I should get to the point."

"That would be a good idea." said Coin.

Remus took papers from his briefcase and shuffled them. "A current and full report on the district supply networks has, of course, been distributed to the various department heads. In summary: deliveries of goods from the districts have fallen off considerably. Most of the networks remain intact and functional, but increased Peacekeeper scrutiny has had a significant dampening effect."

"And...?"

"District 6 remains the worst problem. Those networks are still down completely. Clement really isn't cut out for the type of work necessary to rebuild. He has asked me to return to the district to help."

"What can you hope to do?"

Remus shifted in his chair, straightened himself. "I think I mostly have better people skills. He can introduce me to candidates that seem likely to him, and I can sound them out... hopefully find someone a bit more motivated and aggressive... someone interested in actively fighting the Capitol and helping us in the process."

"For the other districts," he continued, "most especially those in open and ongoing conflict, I think it's time we start giving back. They need to know that their sacrifices for us had a purpose and that, in these troubled times, we are there for them."

"Yes." said Coin, continuing to eye him. "That is being addressed through military channels. Co-operation of your runners may be briefly required, but that aspect of operations will be handled outside of your department. Do you plan to go to District 6? Travel is even more precarious now than the last time. Some of the trains passing by have been troop carriers."

"Yes." said Remus. "I think the trip is necessary. I'll make it alone this time. The runners currently in the field are arranging the contacts. Reaping Day will provide cover for a meeting in District 6."

"I'm not convinced that this is a wise move." said Coin. "You're not going to get a network up and running immediately, and these coming Games feel different from previous Games. There is a suspicion that the Capitol is planning a particularly harsh repression in conjunction with them. Why not wait until after the Games when the situation may be clearer?"

"If you are correct, then the situation after the games may preclude a trip altogether. Secure opportunities are always few and far between..."

"As was demonstrated on your last trip to 6." Coin interrupted.

"Yes. Yes." continued Remus impatiently, "But we can't just give up. We must take advantage of such chances as present themselves. We need someone in place, a native of the district who can read the situation and act accordingly on a day-to-day basis, with minimum input from us. At the moment, we don't have one, which is why this trip is necessary. I expect to be back here well before the Games start, so that should be well before the Capitol makes its move... if your assessment is correct."

Coin did not respond.

"As I say, there are runners in the field now, despite the hazards. I am convinced that this trip will be no more dangerous than is usually the case, if it is undertaken soon, with the goal of completing it in a timely fashion. Can you doubt that we need a supply network in District 6? A train will be passing by in 2 days, a freight train I am assured. That is the schedule we are working towards."

Coin studied his face long and hard, then nodded slowly.

"Keep us informed." she said.

When Remus had left the room, she turned to Boggs. "When he leaves the district, I want his room and office thoroughly searched." She paused, "And when he returns, I want him thoroughly searched as well."

Boggs nodded.

* * *

The trip to 6 was notable only for its discomfort. Remus was exhausted on arrival, but Clement insisted that they move immediately. He was a day early, the Reaping not yet underway, the district immersed in its usual business, but Clement took him directly into the open of the city square, told him to wait, and disappeared back the way they had come. Soon Milo sauntered into the square. "Titan!" he smiled effusively, "How good to see you!", and shook Remus' hand warmly in both of his. There was no pretense of secrecy. The two walked casually across the sunlit space.

The square and its surrounding buildings had been cleaned considerably since his last visit. Under the watchful eyes of heavily armed Peacekeepers, workers were scrambling to clear the scant remaining rubble of a collapsed building. The debris was being moved by hand, and tossed into the backs of waiting trucks. Enormous video monitors had been hung high on three sides of the square. The Justice Building, on the fourth side, was draped with a massive flag showing the Great Seal of Panem. It was flanked on either side by huge banners of a smiling President Snow.

At one end of the square stood a large gallows from which four bodies hung, still in the early summer heat.

"Quite a difference from last time, wouldn't you say?" Milo beamed. They walked towards the Justice Building. "We've cleaned this place from top to bottom, in every way imaginable." He gave Remus a knowing look, and a wink. "It's going to be a model for every district in Panem. You'll see."

As they passed the gallows, his expression grew concerned. He stopped and indicated the bodies with a sweep of his arm. "Isn't it amazing." he said. "The Capitol provides these people with gainful employment, housing, security, even amusements... all at great expense. I tell you, we even supply sustenance to the disadvantaged! The average man has never, in the entire history of the world, had it so good. And yet there are still troublemakers, criminals. It gets so that decent people don't dare to walk their own streets.

"Well," he said, "we've put all that to rest here."

Sunlight glinted off the barrels in the machine gun emplacements on the roof of the Justice Building as they entered its shadow, passed a pair of armed guards at the entrance, and Milo led the way to an interior office.

When they were seated, and Milo had served hot coffee, he looked at Remus and asked, "So what's the news from 13?"

"They're concerned about the upcoming Games." said Remus.

"As well they should be." responded Milo.

"They think the Capitol may be planning some sort of military action using the Games as a cover."

Milo gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I think they also plan some action of their own," continued Remus, "although they're very tight lipped about it."

"What kind of action?" asked Milo.

"Something to do with the Games."

"The Games themselves, or during the period of the Games?"

"I'm not part of those discussions, but I think the Games themselves."

"Then they will be disappointed." said Milo. "There has never been an arena as secure as this."

He stood, and moved to a window overlooking over the city square. Peering out, he asked, "You're not part of those discussions? Why not? You're in a very responsible position."

Remus shrugged, not wanting to admit his suspicion that he was not sufficiently trusted. "I have been told that 13 has started to supply the rebel movement. They've always been behind it, encouraged it, but their involvement is moving from moral support to material support."

"How do you know this?"

"Coin told me herself. I told her I thought the time had come and she told me it was in hand, but not my department. There are two systems of networks. Mine is supply, but there is another that deals with political and military matters."

"Not in this district." said Milo. "This district is clear."

"I tried to get them to amalgamate the networks," said Remus, "but they're not interested."

Milo stood staring out the window and nodding absently.

"And what about our plan?" he asked. "Obviously you're not under arrest. You still hold your position... even if it is limited. What about the explosives?"

"They are securely hidden. Waiting for instructions."

Milo's mind seemed to be elsewhere and he said, almost to himself, "Our plans have been progressing as well."

He turned to Remus, "We do have plans for 13 during the Games and you play a big part in them. Have you thought about how best to deliver the explosives? How best to achieve your objective?"

"I do have an idea." said Remus. "They hold a weekly logistics meeting. I attend that. It's not unusual for that meeting to be followed by a security conference. The brass are usually in attendance for both. I could load my briefcase, find an excuse to leave the meeting temporarily, leave the briefcase behind, and Wham-O!"

Milo nodded.

"You have to assume," said Remus, "that it won't take long for them to figure the source of the explosion. I'd have to get out pretty fast and they'd sure be after me."

"Do you anticipate one of these meetings early on in the Games?"

Remus thought about it, counting days off on his fingers. "As I see it, there will likely be one in the first couple days. District 13 does carry the Capitol television feed, I guess they pirate it, but it's not allowed to interfere with normal operations. These Games though... people are so antsy, I can't be sure."

"That should work out fine." said Milo. "With what we have planned, I expect they'll be having a lot of security meetings about then. Yes, that should work out very well indeed."

"So that's the go time?"

Milo made the decision. "Yes."

"And what about me getting away?" asked Remus. "I can't just scamper off into the wilderness. It's a safe bet they'll be in pursuit. Even if I have a sufficient lead and can outrun them, I'll bet they'll have any train covered, so that's out. And District 12 is just too far."

"I'll tell you what:" said Milo. "we'll bring District 12 to you.

"You get yourself out of 13 using that tunnel they've got, and start heading along your usual route for the train. You've said the entrance is heavily monitored, so we won't want to get too close to it, but I guarantee that Peacekeepers from District 12 will be in the area, and they'll be expecting you. I just wish I could be there when you're finally reunited with your brother."

Remus looked up at him, startled, "My brother?" That Romulus might figure into this had never entered his mind. The thought left him with a strange combination of anticipation, and dread. He composed himself. "What about pursuit from 13?"

"I don't think so." said Milo. "They'll mostly be otherwise occupied and, of course, you'll have blown the tunnel."

Milo was beaming once again. "Oh, this all sounds so excellent. I am pleased. Why don't we give ourselves a holiday and enjoy the Reaping before you head on back?" He added flippantly, "Too bad Argus won't be there."

He laughed. Milo smiled weakly in return, and tried to ignore the knot that suddenly formed in his stomach.

* * *

The day of the Reaping (mandatory attendance in every Panem district) was just another day in District 13. The Capitol telecast was broadcast throughout the district, and interest was high, but it was not allowed to disrupt daily routine. This year, the Reaping coincided with a weekly Head of Departments meeting. In the Command Center, the usual people were in attendance. The mood was tense as the agenda called for Boggs to deliver a security briefing.

Boggs and Coin entered the meeting together. He had just informed her that nothing out of the ordinary had surfaced in the search of Remus Thread's quarters. Her reaction to the news was studiously neutral.

The meeting progressed in its usual fashion, but it was obvious that everyone was anxious to hear from Boggs. His report was short and to the point.

"Activity at the Capitol base has increased significantly." he said. "Their hovercraft fleet has been dramatically augmented, and there are daily drills involving most of their aircraft. They launch, assemble at some predetermined point and practice tight formation flying. There is also a troop build up in District 12. They're preparing for something."

Coin said, "Under the circumstances, I don't think there's any alternative other than to increase our alert status here. It's beginning to sound like we can expect some kind of action."

"It's counterproductive to try to sustain an alert when nothing is happening. You get that they're-crying-wolf attitude setting in and people lose the sense of urgency." said Boggs.

"The Reaping is happening today, and it's only one week to the start of the Games. Does that not seem like a logical time for the Capitol to make whatever move it has planned?"

It was not a point Boggs could argue.

"We'll increase the alert status in steps over the course of the week. By the start of the Games this district will be at its highest state of preparedness, and we will need to sustain that for their duration."

The meeting moved on to other topics and was soon concluded.

The Security meeting, held later that evening, started with all those present watching the Capitol's recap of the day's event.

"So that's it." said Coin. "Where does that leave us?"

"The District 3 tributes are ideal." Boggs said. "I can't imagine how Plutarch managed the fix. With Beetee and Wiress for tributes, we couldn't hope for better in terms of implementing the plan. It lies within their expertise. Beetee's input was essential in formulating it. We just don't know if it will work. They are both fully aware of the plan and think it stands a good chance of success.

"Having Finnick and Johanna is very good news. They are in on it as well. Katniss will be very well protected. It's unfortunate about the District 6 selections. Some of our people there knew the plan, but they died in the crackdown. Fortunately, they were not taken prisoner."

"Strange to say 'fortunately'" interjected Coin. "They were good people." There was murmur of assent from around the table.

Boggs continued, "The two selected are both drug addicts. It's unlikely they'll be of much help to us.

"As for the others... Districts 1 and 2 are oblivious and, from the look of it, these will be just another Games to them. They're entirely in the Capitol's pocket. After Katniss' speech in District 11, we can probably count on sympathy from there. Chaff is also good friends with Haymitch, who is in on the plan, but I don't know if those two have discussed it, or will. We pulled about as good a lot as we could hope. The other districts are pretty much catch-as-catch-can."

"And our plan?"

The Head of Scientific Research and Development weighed in, "We're sticking with the idea of knocking out the force field and scooping up the tributes before the Capitol has time to respond. Beetee is confident that the force field can be disrupted from within.

"Plutarch Heavensbee tells us that the designers of the arena admitted that the electrical discharges in the lightning sector will effect the force field, but assured the design committee the disruptions will be very small, very local, very brief, and of no practical value to any of the tributes. The force field is so strong it will, in fact, be an unexpected hazard. A normal force field will repulse any tribute who gets too close to the arena's boundary, but this force field will kill.

"Beetee knows the vulnerabilities in force field configuration, but he is uncertain as to how far any disruptions can be pushed. Best case scenario is to knock out the field entirely. It's possible he may only knock a small hole in it. Or fail completely. We will have a hovercraft on site when the attempt is made, though it's uncertain what effect the implosion of the force field might have on it. Military says it will be a strictly volunteer mission, but they anticipate no problem in finding a crew."

Coin asked, "Will the hovercraft be able to accurately position itself while outside the force field?"

"Our technicians say 'yes'. They say the electrical charges involved will make finding the location simple even from outside. Two problems: first, our hovercraft will have to be at the arena at least 12 hours in advance of Beetee's attempt, to identify the lightning sector with certainty, and second, the electromagnetic forces induced by those charges may pose a risk to the plane."

Boggs interjected, "If Wiress and Beetee die before getting to the point, the plan fails pure and simple. No one else has a clue how to make it work. Any of our people might die before the plan is implemented, including Katniss and Peeta. They might die after the plan is implemented. If things work exactly as we want, all of them will still be in dangerous proximity to those lightning bolts."

Coin nodded her understanding. "There will be a Capitol hovercraft inside the force field." she said, "They'll be preparing for the nightly wrap-up. How much of a threat will that pose to our operation?"

"It is what we know the Capitol has on site." said the Head of Special Defense, "Usually that craft is pretty much an observation platform... some armament, but minimal. The tributes certainly aren't seen as a threat to the arena, or to the hovercraft, and in all the years of the Games there have only been a couple of times when the Capitol felt compelled to take direct action against one of them. I'm sure Snow regrets that the last Games wasn't one of those instances. This time, however, Plutarch assures us that it's practically a gunship, very militarized, consistent with the Capitol's plans for these Games.

"We have the advantage of knowing some of what they have. Hopefully, they will not be expecting us. Also, the armaments they are carrying will be primarily air-to-ground weapons. Our ship is heavily armed as well, and those armaments are mostly air-to-air. The hovercraft is being very specifically equipped... retrieval equipment, medical and defense."

He slowly shook his head. "We are putting immense reliance on that one hovercraft. It's mission involves several different stages, each very perilous, and each essential to the success of our plans."

"So?"

"It's like we have all our eggs in one basket. If we lose that one hovercraft, all our plans go up in smoke. If the hovercraft fails in any part of its mission, the consequences will be devastating. It's all so very risky, but I see no alternative... it's a risk we have to take."

Coin surveyed the department Heads. "And it may only take our plans to trigger a Capitol attack."

* * *

On his return, Remus was surprised upon passing the bulkhead sealing the entrance of the tunnel from the main District 13 facility to find two uniformed guards waiting there, weapons at the ready.

"Sorry, Mr. Thread," said one. "New security protocols: everyone entering or leaving the District to be searched."

Remus looked from one to the other, then smiled and shrugged. "Very well." he said. "Can't be too careful." They weren't placing him under arrest, and he certainly had nothing to hide. He surrendered his traveling pack for starters.

* * *

It was clear from the outset that the 75th Hunger Games would be different from those that went before. In District 13, viewing was not mandatory as it was throughout the rest of Panem, but the Capitol broadcast was not censored, and a large segment of the population followed the Games avidly. Knowing what was to come both from District 13's plans and from the known plans of the Capitol, 13's High Command was paying close attention, and they clustered together in a Command Center.

"Is our hovercraft in place?" asked Coin.

"Not yet." replied Boggs. "It will be dispatched the morning of Day 3."

"Such distances." said Coin. "And so long in the air?"

"Not a problem in terms of fuel." said Boggs.

"And just the one?"

"We can't significantly engage the enemy so far from home and hope to survive, and we haven't the resources to equip even one more craft as this has been equipped. Essentially, we'll be field testing untried technologies. It's an all or nothing thing, totally dependent on surprise, and with an extremely narrow window of opportunity. If one isn't enough, neither is everything we have. An enormous gamble. If we succeed we'll make history."

"Even if we don't succeed, we'll still make history. That's the problem with history."

"The mission goals are clear, but the specifics of how to accomplish them are largely at the Captain's discretion. Briefly stated, they'll arrive at the arena and circle it to drop sensors that will gather the data to tell them where to find the lightning zone. That's the first trial. Assuming they can do that without being detected, they'll proceed to the Capitol to pick up Plutarch and Haymitch, and whoever and whatever they'll be bringing along. Then they have to be back at the arena in time for Beetee's plan. Any way you play the schedule, it's going to be tight. The crew is very much on its own out there. We have some idea of the Capitol's plans. We have to assume that they have some idea of ours.

"If it were me on the Capitol side." continued Boggs, "and I suspected some outside interference might be in the works, I'd have fighters close to the arena, probably base them where the on-site construction administration is centered. It has the facilities."

"Detection begins to sound likely." said Coin.

"We've been over this before. Our activities at the arena will all be carried out in full stealth mode, and we've developed some impressive technologies: new design, materials, and electronic shielding. It's really all we've got. We hope that the arena's force field will have such a large electronic signature that it will further help to mask the presence of our craft, but it's all just guesswork, hopefully informed guesswork. There's nothing more that we can do other than wait and see. The best hope we have is the Capitol's arrogance. If they suspect we're planning something, how certain will they be that any plan of ours cannot succeed?

"Of course 'full stealth mode' includes complete communications silence. Ultimately, except for the Capitol broadcast we'll be watching here, we won't know what's happening until well after it's all over. The whole thing is an immense risk."

* * *

At the start of the Games, Milo received his orders and passed them along to Commander Corel. The base went to highest alert. The munition stores were emptied as all the available hovercraft received full compliment of arms. All crews were on standby and at the peak of readiness. Hovercraft were dispatched to District 12 to pick up Thread and his Peacekeepers and deploy them around District 13.

"He can't have more than 200 men." said Corel. "How can he hope to make an impression on 13?"

"It's not a true assault." replied an exasperated Milo. "Think of them as noisemakers. You're deploying them just beyond 13's known sensor range. 13 won't know if there's a handful or a major force. They will know that they are surrounded. With the activity that they have no doubt noted around this base, we think they'll expect the worst and devote their attention to it. Then the Capitol, and your squadron, will give them a taste of the worst, and that should free us to devote our real attention to pacifying the districts."

"Who's watching 12?"

"There's still a small Peacekeeper presence there. The district is so cowed that so long as a handful of Peacekeepers are visible, there won't be any problems."

By the end of the second day of the Games, 16 of the 24 tributes had died.

At the Capitol outpost, Commander Corel was not happy. "Something strange is happening with these Games." he said. "There's something happening with the tributes that does not make sense. Not just the holding hands thing at the interviews, but in the arena itself. The game is not being played according to previous rules. Everdeen is not part of a pack, she's surrounded by a guard... there's a difference."

Milo replied, "Eight tributes died at the Cornucopia. Eight others have died since then, and I will point out to you that while 3 of those subsequent deaths have been at the hands of other tributes, the remaining 5 were killed by the arena. They were Capitol kills. Things are progressing as expected."

"And our plans for 13?" asked Corel.

"You've been rehearsing it these long weeks. It is now in play, and you're ready. We don't know specifically what mischief has been planned for the arena but, like you, we feel that someone is up to something. Our engineers assure us that the force field is impregnable to anything other than a major onslaught, which would be suicidal."

* * *

Remus shook his head in disbelief at the notice of a Heads of Department meeting for the evening of the next day. The tension in 13 was palpable. An air of anxiety suffused the district, but still they insisted on maintaining this pretense of normalcy. Evening meetings were unusual. That, in itself, indicated the preoccupation of 13's leaders with other matters. It didn't matter to him. Sitting at the desk in his office, he opened a drawer, took out a sock and stared at it. ' _A sock.',_ _h_ e thought. ' _The fate of the nation might rest on this sock.'_ He had put it in his desk the day he had hidden the explosives, the day after returning from District 6.

He had not dared to leave the explosives in his quarters. A laundry room close by provided the solution. It was larger than his sector currently needed, and a broken dryer had gone untended for months. Remus had gone to the room when returning from his office duties, his briefcase holding the lump of plastics. Finding the laundry deserted, he had stuffed the explosives into the vent behind the dryer. He had the sock with him then. If someone had come in on him, he would simply explain that it was one he had lost and he was checking the room to see if it might have fallen behind something.

He was doing the same thing now. What a relief that the room was again deserted. He reached into the vent and encountered... something. He turned pale, and suddenly felt sick. From the vent, he pulled a small wooden block, a child's toy. Some child had been playing around the vent! He reached in again, and there were the plastics. ' _Imagine_ ,' he thought, ' _if that kid had reached in just a few inches farther...'_ He stuffed the package into his briefcase and hurried off to his quarters.

* * *

Day three of the Games saw Corel and Milo engrossed in the broadcast. Corel's concerns had not eased. There was something... off... about how these Games were unfolding.

"What is it with these buns?" he asked. "That's three times this group has been gifted with twenty-four buns from District 3. You've seen Finnick... and Beetee. You've seen how careful they are to be certain of the count and to be certain of the district. There's more there than sharing. Something's happening. They have some kind of plan. Who is behind these gifts?"

"You can be sure the gifts are being investigated." said Milo. "I don't doubt it's a message being sent. It won't do them any good.

"It will be interesting if Beetee's plan to electrify the beach works." he continued, "If it does, only the group around Everdeen will remain. We'll see how they react then... all the remaining tributes together in one small area. Will it be a blood bath? Will they stand defiant? Either works from the Capitol perspective. It's proceeding nicely. A bit of drama doesn't hurt at all. When the Games wrap tomorrow, the result will be entirely satisfactory. The Mockingjay will be destroyed and, after your assault, District 13 will be in utter disarray."

* * *

Tensions were peaking in District 13. Their plan to free the tributes was scheduled for that midnight, arena time, and seemed to be progressing smoothly. The rescue hovercraft had launched just as the day was dawning. Boggs was satisfied by reports that 13's tracking and sensor arrays had barely been able to detect it.

In the Command Center, the Capitol broadcast of the Games was being watched by Coin and Boggs. Coin asked, "Are you sure they're getting the message?" as a silver parachute delivered a second group of buns to the circle of tributes surrounding Katniss in the arena.

"Yes." said Boggs. "You can see Finnick and Beetee assessing the delivery. The question is: will the Capitol allow Beetee to attempt his plan? You can bet they're conferring on what effect it might have."

"He used electricity to win his previous Games." replied Coin. "What he's doing now is not out of character. Should they have any reason to think he's doing other than trying to kill off some competition? Hopefully they'll be curious to see if it works. So will we, but for somewhat different reasons."

"Now," said Coin, turning away from the monitor and switching topics, "what is the situation with the base?"

Boggs shook his head. "They've readied their fleet for action, and now we're getting reports of troop movements at our border."

"We'll go to highest alert." said Coin "Noncombatants to shelters, reservists to draw weapons and be on call, active troops deployed in a perimeter beyond the fence. Full lock down. Deploy gunships to the perimeter, tree top level and sight shielded."

"Whatever is happening will happen very soon." said Boggs. "A preemptive strike on the base might be in order. Catch them on the ground."

"No." said Coin. "Our outposts aren't equipped for any kind of attack. The only means we have are hovercraft and manpower. We can't risk our hovercraft. We haven't the manpower to take the fight to them. They will have to bring it to us. They've created a threat on our border. We can only maintain a defensive posture"

"Without testing the threat, we can't know its scope, and we're not going to know until they make their move. The hovercraft we dispatched this morning encountered no problems."

"We'll wait." said Coin. "We'll hold our scheduled meeting, give the Heads a brief breakdown of the situation and announce the steps we're taking."

When the logistics meeting was convened that evening, it faltered from the start. Everyone seemed preoccupied, directionless. The lateness of the hour didn't help. No one showed any interest in discussing mundane issues. Coin gave it up for a lost cause and went straight to the core issue. She described the situation at the Peacekeeper base, and what was known of the situation on 13's border. She announced the move to highest alert. By the time she had completed her summary, the people in attendance were staring at her, stunned and speechless. She looked at the staring faces.

"It's a lot to digest." She sat, drumming her fingers on the table. "I'll tell you what: why don't we take a short break to absorb all this? We'll reconvene in half an hour and, at the very least, go over the procedures for the coming days." She motioned to Boggs and the two of them got up and left the room. They wandered down towards the nearest cafeteria, noting several others leaving after them, intent on errands of their own.

Remus didn't know what to think. The explosives were in the briefcase sitting on his lap. The timer had been set. The plastics had packed neatly into the top and bottom of the case, There was room between, and he had tossed in some papers for show. His intent had been to pull the papers at some point and make a show of having the wrong ones, excuse himself from the meeting to get the right ones, leaving his briefcase behind. Now the meeting was disbanded and the timer was ticking. True, the explosion was set for about a half hour away, but would that be time enough? There was nothing he could do. He left the meeting and headed in the direction of his office.

Coin and Boggs sat in the cafeteria over cups of hot coffee. Two of the other attendees sat at a nearby table, immersed in low conversation. But for them, the room was deserted.

Coin said, "It's like the calm before the storm." Boggs only grunted.

They sat in silence awhile until, by mutual accord, they rose to return to their duties.

It was scant hours before midnight would be upon the 75th Hunger Games.

As they left the cafeteria, a runner approached gasping out a message. "Verbal communication from the perimeter." he reported. "Small arms fire heard but not seen. No indication of troop engagement on our part, all our groups have reported and all's quiet." Boggs thanked the soldier and dismissed him.

"Now what could that mean?" he puzzled. "If we're not shooting, who is?"

The two continued towards the Command Center. Lost in their thoughts.

"Wait a minute." said Boggs, stopping short in his tracks. "What if it's Nomes?"

"Nomes!" exclaimed Coin, "Why would those creatures attack a Peacekeeper force?"

"They wouldn't." replied Boggs excitedly. "They wouldn't interfere with a Peacekeeper force of any magnitude, it would be foolish, but they would attack a small group if they were confident they could beat them.

"Don't you see what this means?" he asked Coin. "The Peacekeeper line must be very thin if Nomes feel they can attack."

"It's a supposition." said Coin "How can you be sure it's Nomes?"

"Well it's not us." responded Boggs. "Who else could it be? A mutiny in the Peacekeepers? We need more info." The two hurried towards the Command Center.

The briefcase bomb exploded just as they rounded the approach corridor corner. The Center was instantly demolished. Masonry and plaster dust ricocheted down the corridor. The force of the explosion knocked them backwards and debris battered them like shotgun pellets. The lights went out and black, acrid smoke filled the air. Live electrical wires sparked down from broken light fixtures and water gushed from fractured lines.

Boggs recovered first, struggling groggily to his feet. His nose was bleeding, his eyes watering and the only thing he could hear was a muted hum. He grabbed Coin by the arm and, fighting stabbing pain in his leg, pulled her free of the debris and back down the corridor. He fell heavily to his knees beside her and was relieved to see her struggling to sit up. She managed it with her back against the wall and stared at him. She was in no better shape than he, coverd in dust, clothes torn, bleeding from the mouth and nose and from several other apparently minor cuts.

She said something to him, but he could not hear. "What?" he yelled.

"Are you alright?" she rasped loudly.

"I seem to be." he yelled in reply. "You?"

They were both battered and torn, but apparently whole. They coughed, gasped, retched in the foul air.

"What happened?"

Emergency lights flickered on around them.

"Stay here," said Boggs. He thought his hearing was starting to return. "I'll take a look."

It was painful just getting to his feet. Limping down the corridor was agony. His left ankle was injured and bloody, and the knee seemed little better. He slowly worked his way towards the source of the explosion, frequently using a wall for support, until he reached a gaping hole. Nothing remained of the Command Center. Walls had been punched out on two sides, a gaping hole had been knocked through the floor, and the ceiling was fractured. He stumbled his way back to Coin.

"The Command Center has been destroyed. It's just gone. The explosion came from within. It must have been sabotage."

"Relocate operations to the sector B Center." gasped Coin. She activated her communicuff and typed in a series of commands. Emergency crews were converging on the scene and soon the smoke began to clear as fires were extinguished and foul air was pumped from the site into District 13's exhaust system.

"We're leaving here." said Coin. "Leave it to the cleanup crews."

Together they started a slow and circuitous route to the new center of operations. Medics arriving on the scene soon caught up with them, and a brief exam showed no obviously extreme trauma. Coin insisted on continuing. The medics, exasperated, had no choice but to try to ease their travel.

"Was anyone in there when the explosion went off?" asked Boggs.

"People are checking in now." replied Coin, glancing at her communicuff. "I've changed my mind." she said, "We'll convene in the cafeteria closest to the Sector B Command Center. We won't enter that Center until it has been checked by anti-bomb personnel. I've given that highest priority."

The small group of command personnel assembled in the cafeteria as the medics finally completed their examinations. Though Coin and Boggs were both were badly shaken, neither had sustained serious injury. Minor cuts and scrapes were treated, Bogg's ankle and knee tightly wrapped. They were both looking at a couple of painful days.

A head count of the command group was taken. Three people remained unaccounted for. "Find them." said Coin.

Reports began to trickle in from the site of the explosion. The situation was under control. Water, electricity and ventilation had all been successfully rerouted. The site was being sealed off, including the levels above and below. There were injured on those levels, but no dead. Human remains had been found at the bombsite and samples were being sent to Special Defense for DNA analysis. A report came in from the bomb squad giving the all clear on the Sector B Command Center and the group moved there to re-establish necessary communications and to review the situation.

"An act of sabotage." said Coin. "Unbelievable!"

"Yes," agreed Boggs, "and we'll get to the bottom of it. But it doesn't change the District status and we need to act on that."

"Begin the alert." Coin ordered, and a loud beeping was soon sounding in the hallways.

Boggs looked at her. "I think the troop movements around us are a feint, a diversion. I think the force is small and only meant to instill fear and indecision. I suggest we send gunships to test the strength between us and the base, and if it proves to be weak, we attack the base."

"This is based on that report of gunfire we received before the explosion?" asked Coin.

"Yes, and the hovercraft launched this morning had no problems."

"But the hovercraft has our latest developments in stealth. We could hardly see it ourselves when we knew where it was. It's not much to go on."

"We need to test the strength of their force one way or another." replied Boggs, "We need to know what we're up against. It's a question of acceptable losses."

Coin sighed. "Any objections?" she asked the group.

There were no replies.

"Make it so." she said.

Orders sent two gunships to test the strength of the Capitol line.

In the meantime, reports came back from Special Defense identifying the DNA of two victims in the Command Center explosion. The person unaccounted for was Remus Thread.

"Find him!" growled Coin.

Within seconds, loud speakers throughout 13 were announcing, "Remus Thread to report to Command Center, Sector B. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Remus Thread to contact Special Defense." Moments later, a photograph of Remus was displayed on every video monitor in the district.

* * *

When the break was called at the Command Center, Remus mumbled something about missing papers and departed, apparently for his office. His briefcase remained behind. No one gave it a second thought. It was just one more of his innumerable idiosyncrasies.

Remus, of course, had no intention of going to his office. The bomb was timed to detonate in just over half an hour, hopefully long enough for the group to reconvene, but not long enough for his absence be noted.

He hustled through empty corridors towards the exit tunnel. The Peacekeepers were aware of its entrance point, he had revealed it to them himself. Milo had assured him that they would be waiting for him to emerge, and would take him immediately to his brother. It was a snap. What a bunch of suckers! So high and mighty and morally superior. Weren't they in for a surprise?

He cautiously spied into the corridor that ended at the tunnel bulkhead, and was relieved to find it unguarded. A brief moment later, he was in the tunnel, closing the bulkhead behind him.

The passage was long, and Remus felt certain that pursuit would not lag far behind, but he had one more surprise for the high and mighty. From his pocket he took the final small package of plastic explosives. He set down the explosives and then activated the proximity sensor several yards back down the tunnel. He sped towards the exit. The end of this little adventure was in sight.

Remus was well aware of the sensors and cameras hidden around the exterior entrance to the tunnel. Who cared? Once out in the open, he would be in the hands of the Peacekeepers – on his way back to the Capitol, clothed in glory.

* * *

Special Defense reported, "We believe Remus Thread is attempting to exit the district through covert tunnel 7. Troops are in pursuit."

"Seal the tunnel!" ordered Coin.

"They can't." murmured Boggs. "The outside exit is designed to keep people from getting in, not from getting out."

Coin fired him a look. She sat, tapping her fingertips on the tabletop and looking at Boggs. "What next?"

Again, Special Defense broke in. "Remus Thread has emerged from the tunnel to the exterior of the district. He has been seen on our surveillance cameras. The pursuit has ended as well. We have one dead and several wounded. An explosion in the tunnel caused a partial collapse."

"That bastard." spat Coin.

"He's beyond our perimeter." said Boggs.

* * *

Remus emerged from the tunnel into the cool night air and set off in his usual direction as instructed by Milo. He was just becoming concerned that he had missed the Peacekeepers when several, dressed in woodland camouflage, emerged from the dark and ordered him to stop. He identified himself, but they seemed unimpressed. They took him in charge and led him off into the bush at a rate he found difficult to maintain.

It was a long, hard march... seeming hours of stumbling and struggling before they emerged onto a broad expanse of bare rock where a group of soldiers stood clustered. Remus was exhausted.

"Where's the Captain?" asked one of the soldiers.

"Off hunting savages." a sergeant replied. "Not enough we have to deal with 13; now we're being attacked from behind by these animals."

He gave Remus an appraising stare.

"This is the one, is it? Why isn't he cuffed?"

"Now wait..." began a breathless Remus, but the sergeant interrupted.

"Shuddup or you'll regret it. Get cuffs on him and put him over there." He nodded towards the edge of the clearing.

Remus had his arms forced behind his back and handcuffs tightly clamped around his wrists. He was manhandled across the clearing and knocked off his feet near a dead tree. He started to protest, but the sergeant was right there, his face inches from Remus' own.

"Shut. Up." said the sergeant, grabbing Remus' jaw in one gloved hand and slamming his head back against the tree. "Or you'll regret it."

Remus subsided in terror. ' _Just wait until Romulus gets here.', h_ e thought, but he said nothing.

The night enclosed them and, despite his situation, Remus felt himself dozing off.

 **7**

At the Capitol base, Milo and Corel continued to monitor events in the arena. It was coming up to 1:00 o'clock in the morning, nearly midnight in the arena. Beetee and Finnick Odair had wrapped the lightning tree in wire. Katniss Everdeen and Johanna Mason were feeding the wire down towards the beach. The telecast was featuring Katniss and Johanna when the wire they were unspooling suddenly went slack. Moments later, Joanna attacked Katniss dealing her an apparently mortal injury. The screens switched back to the clearing around the tree. As the golden wire recoiled in loops and tangles, Finnick swore and then sprinted full speed into the jungle in the direction of the women. The cameras briefly followed him but then snapped back to the clearing where Beetee was acting in a very peculiar fashion. He had wrapped a length of wire around a knife and was preparing to stab at the force field. The force of contact blew Beetee backwards in an unmoving heap.

"What was that all about?" muttered Corel.

A number of jump shots brought the viewer to a confrontation between Brutus and Chaff. The death of Chaff was interesting, but not exceptional. Unexpected was Peeta Melark's arrival on the scene, apparently out of nowhere, catching Brutus off-guard and killing him with surprisingly easy dispatch.

"Now, you see," said Milo, "things are getting interesting."

The broadcast cut back again to the clearing around the lightning tree. Katniss Everdeen had lurched into the scene, her face a mask of blood, her arm crudely bandaged and dripping blood in a nearly steady flow. She spotted Beetee and stumbled towards him, collapsed by his side and apparently tried to revive him. Soon she was wailing Peeta's name like a maniac.

Crashing noises in the nearby jungle led to the sudden appearance of the tributes Finnick and Enobaria, They searched madly about the clearing, but neither spotted Katniss. They did see each other and began the approach to a final, deadly confrontation. Katniss had spotted them. She armed her bow, that deadly bow, and took a bead on Enobaria.

"Yes!" hissed Milo avidly, his face hard and his eyes glittering.

But instead of firing, Katniss hesitated... and she hesitated. Enobaria and Finnick circled closer and closer, each fully intent on the other, each looking for some small weakness, some little opening, some tiny advantage. Both were in plain view to Katniss, but Katniss did not fire. Katniss relaxed her bow and turned back to Beetee. Katniss turned back to Beetee as though lost in some dream, oblivious to the unfolding drama around her.

"What now?" asked Corel.

Katniss took the wire that Beetee had wrapped around the knife and wrapped it around her arrow. Then she raised her bow and fired, not at either of the other two tributes, but into the air where it could strike only the force field. Astonishingly, the arrow was not destroyed in a flash of light. Instead, it vanished from view, dragging the wire after it. And then the lightning struck.

The screen went black, but flickered back, seconds later, the scene picked up by another camera a short distance away. All the tributes around the tree were now laying on the ground, apparently unconscious... or dead. Fireworks erupted into the sky.

"What the hell is going on?" demanded Corel.

"How the hell should I know!" responded Milo.

Again the screen went black, but this time it did not flicker back.

The two sat in the sudden silence staring at each other. Time stretched out and they both turned expectantly towards the blank screen. Nothing was there. Milo sat staring at the screen and drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Corel started shuffling papers on his desk, but then stopped. He slammed his hands on the desk in frustration.

"Is that it? It's over just like that?"

"Can't be." said Milo, sounding perplexed. "There'll have to be some kind of explanation. Something."

As time dragged on, the screen remained blank. The two men fidgeted, neither willing to give up on the broadcast, each waiting for the other to take the lead. Finally, it was Corel who stood up.

"It's late." he said, "If that's the end of it, I'm calling it a night."

A quiet beeping was heard.

"What's that?" asked Corel.

Milo gave a startled jerk, as though suddenly brought back to reality.

"My communicator." he said, taking a small object from his pocket and holding it to his ear.

"Yes?" he asked, and paused momentarily. "Of course." he said, followed by another pause. "Yes, sir!" he said, suddenly sitting up straight. Another long pause followed. "Immediately!" he said and put the communicator back in his pocket.

As he looked at Corel, a knock came at the office door.

"One moment." said Milo before Corel could respond to the knock. "Change of plans. You are to launch immediately. Direct orders from President Snow."

"What?" asked Corel, "We're hitting 13 tonight?" To Corel's eye, Johnson seemed distracted and confused.

"No." said Milo. "New target. District 12." His voice was angry and bitter.

"12!" exclaimed Corel. "Are you insane?"

"Do you question your orders?" demanded Milo, seething now with rage and frustration. His ambition of destroying 13 had suddenly been thwarted, and by none other than President Snow! He was entirely prepared to take it out on Corel.

Another, more insistent knock came at the door.

"Come!" barked the Commander.

The door opened to reveal a soldier who snapped to attention and offered a brisk salute.

"Encrypted message from Peacekeeper Command, District 2, Commander." he said proffering a piece of paper printed with an elaborate barcode, "Your eyes only."

Commander Corel accepted the paper. "Wait there." he told the soldier, and taking the paper to his desk, he fed it into an unobtrusive black machine. He sat silent, reading the message that appeared on a small screen. "Get my second." he told the soldier in a strangely subdued voice. "Stat."

The soldier departed.

"Confirmation of the order." he said to Milo. "And more. We're bugging out. Abandoning the base. After 12 is bombed, the group is to proceed to the base outside District 8."

He shook his head disbelievingly. All those big plans abandoned just like that. A major strategy tossed to the wind. Then a thought occurred to him and he looked at Milo. "Aren't there still Peacekeepers in 12? What about them?"

Milo shrugged, his distraction obvious. "Collateral damage." he murmured, "Collateral damage."

Corel's second in command appeared at the door.

"The group is to launch immediately." he was told by Corel. "You will lead it. The target is District 12. We are ordered to obliterate it. It will be tough to eliminate an entire district, even one as small as 12, with the force we have, but hopefully you can spawn a firestorm. The population is fairly concentrated, so that helps. The Victor's Village is to be spared, and that helps too... and it's the coal district, so there's plenty of fuel on the ground. When the bombing is completed, the group will proceed to District 8. Make sure all cameras are running. The Capitol wants a live feed. Tell one bomber to stand down, send the captain to me. Make sure he knows where Captain Thread was positioned. And tell the captain of the garrison to report as well. Go."

Within moments, klaxons started sounding and the base erupted into action.

Two officers appeared at the door to the office.

Corel addressed them both, "Unload your bombs. Deploy them throughout the base for maximum destruction of defenses and communications, rig them for remote detonation, then get your troops aboard the hovercraft. Do it now."

He stood at a window overlooking the central compound as the squadron started to lift off. Ground troops were using all available equipment to unload the one remaining and distribute the explosives. Minutes later, the squadron had assembled above the base and headed off on a vector to District 12.

"We'll take the remaining craft and pick up Thread." said Corel.

"Are those your orders?" asked Milo. He appeared now to be less agitated, though somewhat surly.

Corel did not reply.

Within half an hour, he and Milo were aboard the hovercraft and in the air with the remainder of the garrison. At a nod, the explosives left behind were detonated, the concussion shaking the craft as it departed. Their initial heading was the same as the group, but as soon as Corel was confident that they were beyond the view of 13's outposts, the craft veered off in the direction of that district.

* * *

The events in the arena were not quite so bewildering in District 13.

"Looks like Beetee got his chance." said Coin as the coverage was abruptly terminated.

"Yes," replied Boggs, "but the tributes were supposed to be far from the tree before the lightning strike. It's unlikely anyone could have survived being that close.

"There's nothing we can do but wait." he continued. "We don't know if the force field went down. We won't know any of it until we hear from the hovercraft."

"There's plenty to do here." said Coin. Boggs nodded. Status reports from the dispatched gunships were due at any moment.

An insistent beeping broke out from the communications tablet before her. It was the link to Special Defense. Coin activated it and said "Go ahead."

"Report from observation post outside the Capitol base. Their whole group has launched"

"They're coming." Coin said to Boggs.

"They don't seem to be on a heading towards us." continued the voice. "As near as the observation post can tell, they're on a heading for District 12."

Coin's puzzlement was obvious, "Why would they head to District 12."

"Maybe it's a feint." said Boggs. "Any word from those gunships?"

"Report from the gunships is that they have encountered no significant Capitol force. One of them switched off its sight shield and took some small arms fire. No significant damage. They destroyed the source of the firing without any counter-action. That's the information we have at this time."

"I'm ordering troops to advance to the position of the gunships. We'll start a sweep." Boggs said. "Reservists will cover their rear and keep the perimeter secured should the Capitol chose to engage. Any sign of incoming will be reported immediately. If there's no response, we'll start another sweep on the opposite side of the district. And then it's just sit and wait. The waiting is always the hardest part." He started tapping commands into his communicuff.

For long minutes, silence reigned in the Commmand Center until, once again, the beeping sounded and Special Defense was reporting.

"More information from our outpost at the base." came the voice. "A final hovercraft has just departed on the same course as the others, and several large explosions have taken place. Several watchtowers have been destroyed, as well as other facilities we thought might contain short range and surface to air missiles. The communications center has been demolished and is burning, as are the command offices. The generating station is rubble."

"What is going on?" asked Boggs, his puzzlement obvious. "It sounds like they just packed up and left."

Coin and Boggs sat silent together as the time dragged on. Nothing to do but wait for incoming reports. No decisions to be made, actions to be taken, until more information was available. And still the night continued.

Unexpectedly, the monitors carrying the Capitol video feed crackled into life. A 'Stay Tuned' notice appeared, replaced shortly by a news center set, grim-faced anchorman in place.

"What now?" asked Coin.

The anchorman began, "It saddens the Capitol to announce that this year's Quarter Quell Games have been disrupted by acts of terrorism. These acts have been promulgated by groups centered around Katniss Everdeen, also known as The Mockingjay, a known malcontent. The Capitol finds it necessary to cut this cancer from Panem before it can spread. The Mockingjay is dead, and the seditious center from which she sprang is being destroyed. We bring you now a live feed from District 12."

The view cut to cameras mounted outside the District 12 Justice Building. It was after 2:00 o'clock in the morning, but despite the lateness of the hour there was still a small crowd of people in the square, their presence tolerated because of the Games. The crowd had been larger an hour earlier, fueled by interest in Beetee's plan. When the monitors cut out, there was a swell of astonishment, but as the monitors remained dark, people started to drift away, going home to bed. It was very late and tomorrow was, after all, another working day. Most of the power was out, but the Capitol cameras still had juice. Those people remaining were all looking in the same direction away from the monitors. From a distance, explosions could be heard, merging together into a rolling thunder. Rapidly they came closer and closer, and a soft, red light began to suffuse the square. A babble of alarm rose from the crowd and soon erupted into wild panic as the they ran for their lives. Explosions erupted just beyond camera range. Debris and flame flew into the square and then the image was gone. The feed cut to cameras well above District 12, showing fireballs from detonating bombs blossoming upwards like obscene flowers. Rivers of flame flowed through the streets.

The images continued, and continued, and continued as if they must go on forever. The anchorman intoned, "The Capitol regrets the necessity of this action, but it owes a duty to its loyal citizens to demonstrate that unrest will be dealt with swiftly and firmly, and to send a clear message to those who would disrupt the nation's peace and prosperity." The broadcast of the carnage continued without further comment.

There was silence in the Command Center.

 **8**

Remus awoke to the murmur of voices and saw his brother standing in the clearing before him.

"Romulus!" he gasped, struggling to his feet. He stumbled forward, but his brother's sudden stare stopped him cold. They were twins, but in this place they seemed entirely unalike. Romulus was hard from years of exercise and training, and from years of command in a brutal and repressive regime. Remus was soft from just as many years of indoor desk work and the meagre diet of District 13.

Romulus pushed him away, and Remus staggered backwards. Romulus turned to continue talking to the sergeant, but then he abruptly stopped, and his shoulders slumped. He spun back on Remus. "You idiot!" he snarled, his face a mask of anger and pain, "You stupid, treasonous idiot!"

"No!" said Remus stepping back. "You don't understand!"

"You bring ruination on our family, and then turn up as the director of criminal and traitorous networks serving that abomination, District 13?"

"No." responded Remus. "I made foolish mistakes, but I've atoned. Our parents have been restored to the Capitol. I've been the Capitol's agent in 13. I've destroyed their high command."

"Restored to the Capitol?" exclaimed Romulus. "Taken back there and executed!"

Remus, gasped for air, collapsing to his knees as if struck. "What?"

"And I'm in this hellhole because of you." continued Romulus, swatting viciously at an errant mosquito.

"No." pleaded Remus weakly, "Milo explained..."

But Romulus was not listening. "There is only one hope for our family, one hope for me." he said. "I must demonstrate my unswerving loyalty to the Capitol. I have my orders." With that, he drew his sidearm and shot his brother dead.

Barely had Remus' body hit the ground when a hovercraft materialized over the group. All weapons were instantly raised, but Romulus barked "Hold fire!" as he recognized a Capitol insignia illuminated against the night. The craft settled in the open space and from it emerged a uniformed Peacekeeper Commander, accompanied by a civilian, and two other officers in combat fatigues. The Commander scanned the group on the ground until he recognized the insignia of their Captain.

"Captain Romulus Thread?" he asked.

"Yes." replied Thread, offering a brief salute. "And you are...?"

"Commander Julius Corel, Capitol Base 43." came the response. "What's going on here?" He indicated the body on the ground.

"The death of a traitor." said Romulus. "A matter of no consequence." The two officers shook hands.

Corel thrust the matter from his mind. "We're here to evacuate you and your men." he said. "The District 13 operation has been terminated."

"Not that I've heard." said Romulus.

As Corel was showing Romulus the orders aborting the attack on 13 and requiring the abandonment of the base, Milo was looking at the body on the ground.

"Titan." he murmured under his breath. It was a sneer.

Corel caught the tone and looked at him sharply. "What's that?" he snapped.

Milo, his thoughts disrupted, turned an impassive gaze to the Commander. "What?" he asked, then, "Oh. Absolutely nothing."

Corel introduced him to Romulus, "Milo Johnson, a civilian adviser."

The two shook hands, Milo smiling.

"What now?" Romulus asked.

"Get your men aboard the hovercraft, we're leaving." said Corel.

"On what authority? You may have orders to abandon the mission; I do not. My men are scattered all around 13." said Thread.

"On my authority. We'll do what we can, starting here." responded Corel.

Romulus gave the order, and they turned to board the hovercraft.

As they entered, Milo said to Romulus, "I'm sure a grateful nation thanks you for the job you've done here tonight."

Hardly had the hovercraft left the ground when its Captain announced, "Incoming detected. Moving very slowly, likely covering a troop advance. Doesn't look like they've seen us."

Corel looked at Thread. "No time for further pick-ups."

To the Captain, he said, "Get us out of here. Give District 13 a wide berth, then head for District 8."

Milo sat by a porthole pensively staring out into the night. "Be true to your training." The plan for District 13 had fallen through... _this_ plan for 13 had fallen through... terminated by President Snow personally. He drew a deep breath. This was a bitter disappointment, but it wasn't the end. "Be true to your training." His faith in President Snow was absolute. If this was necessary, so be it. Snow knew what he was doing, knew more than Milo, of that Milo was convinced. Snow would issue new orders, and Milo was ready. The game had taken an unexpected twist, but it wasn't over yet. Milo knew the end must be achieved, and he would serve as required to make that happen.

The hovercraft silently moved off into the night.


End file.
